


Unforeseen Complications

by SigmaCreations



Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-04-23 17:31:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 55,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14337525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SigmaCreations/pseuds/SigmaCreations
Summary: Set after 2.5 and EERIE, Harry realises something important... Kudos owns what's theirs and the rest is my own work. Positive, constructive comments are always welcome and much appreciated. Cheers, S.C.





	1. Chapter 1

_Saturday, 24 th May 2003 – The Grid_

 

The Grid is a disaster zone and though a full technical crew has been working on it non-stop since they left for a late lunch at the George, at first glance it appears like they've made but little progress in the gargantuan task of fixing all the damage wrought by his team during EERIE. As he wades through the wreckage to get to his office, he can't help but fume at the short-sightedness of an exercise that has resulted in such destruction to the base of operations of the Counter Terrorism department. Who needs foreign agents and terrorists when MI-5 is capable of undermining their own effectiveness like this?

It hadn't been his decision to take what should have been a routine exercise to such extremes, but though he'd voiced his objections as loudly as he could, his arguments had fallen on deaf ears. Most of the other Section Heads and members of the JIC had reacted with glee at the prospect of such a vigorous test of his officers' mettle, though he's sure that, if it had been their sections put under the microscope, they wouldn't have been nearly as keen. And though he feels great pride in the way his officers handled themselves and the situation, and the strength of Tom's leadership, he can't help but worry about the consequences. His Section Chief has not been himself lately – since that unfortunate business with the woman and the child – and he worries that the strain he's been through today might prove too much for him.

“What's done is done,” he mutters to himself as he slips into his office and closes the door behind him. At least this part of the Grid has mercifully been spared from assault by his officers on their quest for a connection to the outside world. He utters a few choice words under his breath to characterise the people who came up with the parameters for this test. Destroying the Grid in an exercise, not to mention the emotional strain put on his team, seems like a particularly stupid thing to do – God only knows how long it'll take to make the space serviceable again so they can get on with the very important job of actually protecting the country, rather than just playing at it.

He purses his lips in distaste before walking over to the drinks cabinet and pouring himself a good measure of whisky, needing the fortification despite the fact that he's only just returned from the pub where the last two hours have been spent snacking on pub food and drinking, while simultaneously hobnobbing with the members of the evaluation committee and touching base with each member of his team to personally convey his congratulations on a job well done and smooth any ruffled feathers. They've done him proud – all of them.

He takes a sip of the Scotch and sighs in contentment before carrying it over to his desk where he sits down at his computer to compile his report, wishing to get it done while it's still fresh in his mind, knowing that tomorrow there'll be precious little time for it. He wants to be present for his officers' debriefings and will also have the dubious pleasure of being debriefed himself by the evaluation committee, and probably in the presence of the DG.

He takes another sip of his drink and puts on some music to drown out the sound of the work happening outside his inner sanctum before he begins to type up his thoughts, his work absorbing him until, both his account of today's events and observations, and his drink are finished. He clicks save and leans back, running his hand over the back of his head to his neck when he attempts to massage away the tension as he lifts his eyes to the windows that look out upon the Grid, his hand pausing as his gaze alights on Ruth. She's sitting at her station, headphones covering her ears while she types away at her computer, seemingly oblivious to the activity around her, perhaps wishing like him to get writing her report over with, though he'd told each one of them to go home and leave it until Monday when the Grid will, hopefully, be fully functional once more.

He frowns, pursing his lips, his mind wandering over the events of the day and the way she'd responded to them. She, more than anyone else, has surprised him today. Her initial excitement at the prospect of the exercise had amused him, though he'd expected nothing less of her. She always seems so eager when she arrives in the morning, going about her job with the enthusiasm of someone for whom the novelty of being a spy has not yet worn off – she and Sam make a right pair. But once things had gotten serious and the team's certainty that this was an exercise had began to waver, she'd show a level of empathy, strength, and conviction that had, in fact, astounded him. He'd been fascinated to see her become the person Tom leant on for support, the one the rest of them deferred to for guidance when Tom's orders seemed too harsh and devoid of emotion, the one whose loyalty to their leader secured the chain of command and maintained the team's cohesion. He had not seen her value beyond her ability as a brilliant analyst before, but now he finds himself fascinated by it, by her, and he can't help wanting to learn more about her, probe her to find out what makes her tick and where her limits lie, how best he can use her talents for the good of the team and win back her loyalty to him personally after the way it was shaken today. With the way Tom's been acting lately, he worries that extreme measures might become necessary sooner or later, and he knows that, when the time comes, he will need his officers to be loyal to _him,_ stand by him, and back him up for the good of the Section. If he can win Ruth round to his corner, he'll have more chance of success with the rest of them – he's sure of it.

He sits up, shutting down his computer and gathering his things before exiting his office and locking the door behind him, decisively picking his way across the Grid to her station.

“Ruth,” he says, waiting until she looks up and removes her headphones. “Burning the midnight oil?”

She frowns. “Hardly. It's barely five o'clock, Harry.”

He glances at his watch only to confirm that she's right. “So it is. It feels like the longest day ever.”

“Does it?” she questions, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms, glaring up at him. “Hard work, was it, sitting in your office, pretending to be dying, while the rest of us faced the end of the world together?”

 _Ouch!_ He almost winces at her words, silently plotting the demise of whichever imbecile thought it was a good idea to have him emotionally manipulate his officers to such an extent. He purses his lips and lifts his hand to rub his nose, searching for the words that'll help smooth the road towards trust between them. “It wasn't my idea, Ruth. It was too much. I know that. They took this whole thing too far, but all my objections at the planning stages were overruled. I had a part to play – we all did – but I _am_ sorry for any distress it caused you.”

“Distress?! I thought you were _dying,_ Harry, and I had to just... _leave_ you there. To die. Alone...” She shakes her head, sitting up and turning back to her computer screen, and he's surprised to see the sheen of tears in her eyes. Has she come to care for him that much? It's a rather gratifying thought.

“I know. I'm sorry, Ruth.” His voice is soft, full of remorse, and he softens his gaze, wishing to convey his deep regret, for though in the moment he'd enjoyed the deception, the thrill of playing a part convincingly as if he were back in the field, he knows the cost has been too high for the little bit of excitement he'd experienced. He _needs_ to win back her loyalty, her trust. He has a feeling it is imperative, or it will be very soon. He opens his mouth to say more, but one of the maintenance crew chooses that moment to start drilling into the wall, making any attempt at further conversation utterly futile. He growls in exasperation, turning to glare at the man responsible for the racket, but he doesn't pay him the least bit attention. He knows he has no authority over this crew and they're unlikely to stop even if he marches over there and demands it of them. Their orders are to get the Grid up and running as fast as possible, which is something he would very much like to happen himself, so they can get back to some _real_ work. Trying to stop these people just to have a conversation would, therefore, be counter productive to the extreme, so he quickly dismisses any thought of the workers and turns back to Ruth who is covering her ears with her hands, her face scrunched up in a look of deep discomfort.

“Let me give you a lift home,” he suggests, when there is a pause in the drilling. She looks like she might object, so he adds, “To try to make amends for being such a bastard,” watching as her eyes flash daggers at him before she narrows them and lifts her chin with defiance.

“You can try,” she says just before the drilling recommences and she quickly turns her attention to her computer, shutting it down and collecting her things so they can make their escape, slipping through the pods to the lifts and down to the garage where his driver is waiting for him.

 

* * *

 

“I understand what they were trying to do, Harry,” she says after she's given Charles, Harry's driver, her address and the silence has stretched on for a while, “but I think it went too far. What would have happened if we'd broken under the pressure? How would that have helped Tom, the rest of us, when faced with the real thing, to know that we had failed or to be second guessing ourselves, unsure if this is just another exercise? Or if tempers had run high and things had been done or said that people could never take back? Danny and Colin... Some things cannot be unsaid, undone, Harry.”

“I know,” he murmurs, his eyes looking at her in a way she's not seen often, with an intensity and concentration that makes her realise he's suddenly very much interested in her, in solving her like an intriguing, new puzzle. It makes her a little uncomfortable – being the focus of his attention like this – but she tries not to show it. She knows it's an indication of admiration on his part, an acknowledgement that he's missed something at first glance and needs to reassess her. He'd had that same look in his eyes after she'd found Ibn Khaldun and after she'd identified Noah Gleeson. He's a man who likes to know his officers, the pieces on his chess-board, so he can use them as effectively as possible when he needs them. It's part of what makes him so good and effective as Head of Section – he often leads from the front and knows his people far better than most in his position, and that's part of what she's come to admire about him.

She looks away, out the window, the memory of finding him in his office, thinking he was poisoned, dying before her very eyes, suddenly leaping to the forefront of her mind, still too painful, perhaps because it seems so out of character with the boss she's come to know and respect. He'd lied to her, to all of them, pretended to be dying, and she'd called him a bastard for it to his face. Those things can't be undone either.

She'd wanted so much to join MI-5 and his section in particular, having heard good things about his team, the high standards he expects of them, and the hands on approach he uses to run it. She'd hoped to impress him enough to win a permanent transfer over from GCHQ, earn the right to remain in Section D on her own merit, to learn from him, from Tom, from all the other agents. Now though, she's not quite sure how she feels about things. She needs time, she knows. The roller coaster, that today has been, throwing her for six, and she still feels like the world is spinning too fast and wobbling on its axis.

“It's almost six o'clock,” she hears him say, “and I must confess, I'm famished. There's only so much sustenance a man can get from a liquid lunch. How about you, Ruth? Would you care to join me for an early dinner?”

She turns to look at him, surprised by the suggestion, yet finding herself oddly tempted by the offer. Perhaps she's not quite ready to be alone just yet after fearing the loss of millions. “Where?” she asks.

“Anywhere. This is your side of town. I was hoping you could recommend some place.”

“Ummm,” she hesitates, thinking. “There's a decent Thai place not far from mine. I mean, the food's decent, I don't know if-”

“Sounds good,” he interrupts, watching and waiting.

“Alright,” she concedes. “I suppose I need to eat some dinner.” And before long, she finds herself tucked away at the back of the restaurant, eating chicken curry and drinking rice wine while conversing with Harry about all sorts of things, from the weather to music, to philosophy and travel, and feeling herself begin to unwind from the trials of the day. 

She's only known Harry three months, and while she's always known he's an intelligent man with a razor sharp mind – and tongue if one isn't too careful – and a healthy interest in many subjects, she never expected that he could be such good company, that conversation with him could flow so easily, and that his humour would be so much to her liking. As the evening has progressed, she's found herself falling more and more under his spell, helped along by the wine and the cosy atmosphere around them, not to mention the relief of surviving today, even if the situation had turned out to be a hoax rather than the real thing. And that's another thing she'd never expected – to be on the receiving end of Harry's charm. She hadn't thought he'd look at her twice, let alone take the trouble to get to know her, even if she's had a bit of a crush on him almost from the start.

By the time they've finished their leisurely meal, Harry has offered to pay to make up for deceiving her into believing he was dying, she's countered his offer by suggesting she pay to make up for calling him a bastard, they've each smiled at the other and paid for their own meal, she's feeling decidedly reluctant to part with him for the night. As soft and warm as Fidget is, he's not human, and sometimes, she finds that she needs the touch, the warmth, the contact with another person. That that person is Harry tonight, she finds quite confusing and so surreal that she decides simply not to think about it.

Harry had dismissed Charles earlier, not wanting to keep the young man waiting while they ate, so they now walk the six blocks to her home in silence, her suggestion that she can find her own way home and he should take the lone cab at the taxi rank meeting with a frown from him and a quick dismissal, followed by an assurance that he would enjoy a walk anyway, after their meal, and can she please stop trying to deprive him of it and her company. That had made her smile and almost reach for his hand to squeeze it in gratitude and maybe hold onto it all the way home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for all your wonderful reviews and encouragement. They make my day. The following chapter is M-rated. I had originally used Harry's Diary for dates for this fic (like I usually do) but episode 2.08 references a surprise birthday party for Harry, which would make the dates in Harry's Diary off by several months and we couldn't have that now, could we? So, anyway, enjoy and please review. Cheers, S.C.

_Saturday, 24 th May 2003 – Ruth's Place_

 

He's enjoyed himself much more this evening than he dare admit, even to himself, and as they continue walking silently, side by side while the sun sets and the colours fade around them, he can't help but acknowledge that he's not ready for this evening to end and he would very much like for her to ask him in. No sooner has he realised this and started processing the implications, when she turns sharply to her left, glancing over her shoulder at him when he stops short, saying, “This is it.”

“Right,” he says, taking a few steps after her down the short path to her door, lingering far enough back so as not to seem too eager. This day, this evening has been full of surprises, yet he cannot, _must_ not forget that Ruth is his analyst, that he is her boss, that their meal was not a date, was barely even a meal between friends – though, after two hours of pleasant, stimulating conversation, it feels like that now – and that, whatever happens next, he _must_ make sure that they will be able to work together come morning.

She gets the door open but hesitates for a moment before turning to face him, one hand resting on the door-handle. “Would you like to come in, Harry?”

She's looking right at him, her meaning crystal clear, and it takes him a moment to recover from his surprise before he can reply. “I'd love to, Ruth.” He says her name seductively, barely able to contain his desire, his heart hammering in his chest as he moves closer, looming over her in the gathering dusk, his right hand reaching for her left one and giving it a gentle squeeze.

She smiles fleetingly and turns, stepping through her front door as he follows on her heels, releasing her hand to close and lock it behind him before he turns to find her hanging up her coat, then reaching down to remove her boots, barely sparing him a glance. For a moment, he wonders if he misread her look or if she's changed her mind already, but quickly recovers his equilibrium, resolving to give her an out at the first opportunity before things progress much further. He wants her tonight and he knows that he's perfectly capable of taking her to bed and walking onto the Grid in the morning as if nothing happened. He's done this several times before over the years and it's never been a problem for him. He's not sure that Ruth has, however, and he doesn't want to jeopardise their working relationship. She's a pawn on his chessboard that's just turned into a queen and he'll be damned if he'll lose her to a quick, stolen moment of pleasure.

He hangs up his coat and turns to face her once more, finding her watching him, her expression hard to read in the gloom. He thinks about searching for the light-switch but quickly dismisses the notion, remembering the glass-panes in the front door, the spook in him knowing the danger of outlining their silhouettes to those potentially lurking outside in the shadows, the lover in him acknowledging it's easier to play the seduction game in the dark.

He takes a step closer, and another, until he's standing right before her, struck suddenly by the difference in their heights now she's taken her boots off. She's small and delicate compared to his bulk, but he knows the measure of her now, the strength and courage that she's proving even now by not shying away from him, her head tilted up to look at him, a little hum of pleasure escaping her as he lifts his palm to cup her cheek, thumb coasting slowly over her cheekbone before he leans in to kiss her.

It's soft and sweet, gentle and unhurried, a kiss to say hello by, a kiss to gently greet.

He draws back and waits, his thumb still caressing her cheek, fingertips stroking her hairline, nose beside hers, his breath coasting over her lips, breathing her in, blood heating at the tantalising possibilities spreading out before them.

He doesn't have to wait long, her hands reaching up to grasp his lapels and draw him closer, her lips pressing against his own again, more firmly this time, with purpose, a kiss to say I like you and I want more.

He lifts his other hand to her waist, drawing her closer, his right hand slipping round her face to thread into her hair, cupping the back of her head as the heat rises between them, their breaths harsher in the stillness of the house, his want growing with every passing moment.

She tastes of mint and wine, her lips soft and pliable against his, the enthusiasm with which she's kissing him almost making him tremble, the thought of the passion he might unleash in her, if given half a chance, inflaming his desire. Is there no end to the surprises with this woman?

He pulls out of the kiss to catch his breath and give her the opportunity to reconsider, leaning back far enough to see her eyes clearly, drawing his palm back to her cheek, his thumb running along her jaw this time and over her lower lip. He wants her. Desperately. But he must give her time to consider. The gentleman in him demands it of him, as does the spy, the Section Head who worries about the impact this'll have on his team. “Toilet?” he asks softly, shattering the stillness.

She clears her throat and steps back, causing his hand to fall away from her face. “Down the hall, first door on the left.”

 

* * *

 

She can't help but think that he did that on purpose, gave her time to think about this, make sure she really wants it. And just the fact that he's done that, given her an out, makes her want to do this even more because it turns out that Harry's rather a decent man in addition to being a bastard.

She knows she's a little drunk – well, not drunk really, more like very tipsy – and that in the light of day and under normal circumstances she'd never have the guts to be so bold, but _dammit_ she wants this man and she means to have him, just this once, and to hell with the consequences. He'll not be her first one-night-stand, but she rather thinks he might be her best if she can just hold onto the lust and forget, for the next hour or two, that he's her boss with the power to make or break her.

It's been a long day, at times utterly terrifying, and she desperately wants, she _needs,_ some comfort tonight, some passion and lust, a damn good orgasm or two, and a good night's sleep to recover. That's all. Tomorrow will take care of itself. What's that saying again? _There are only two days that nothing can be done – yesterday and tomorrow. So today is the right day to love, believe, do, fuck..._ Who said that? She thinks it might have been the Dalai Lama though, if it was, she doubts he added fuck to the list.

She puts the cat food back in the cupboard and washes her hands at the kitchen sink, drying them on the towel as she turns to watch Fidget wolf down his food with more speed than usual, probably feeling uncomfortable with Harry in their home. _Poor Fidget_ , she thinks, then amends the thought, adding, _but_ _lucky Ruth!_

She smiles, shaking herself and quickly hanging up the towel before going upstairs to glance around, make sure her room is fairly presentable. She doesn't have time to change the sheets, but she hopes he will not notice, nor does she have time to do something about the piles of books and general lack of order. Quickly, she sweeps the clothes littering her bed into her arms and shoves them in the wardrobe, closing the door on them, only to find she needs to open it again to hide away her teddy-bear and his friends. She straightens out the covers and picks up a stray pair of dirty knickers hiding under the bed, taking them through to the laundry basket in the bathroom.

“Ruth?”

“Upstairs,” she calls, quickly switching off the light as she steps back onto the landing, giving her eyes a fighting chance to adjust to the gloom again, knowing she needs the lights off to carry through with this despite the Dutch courage. She needs him to start kissing her again soon. Her mind goes blissfully blank when he does that and she can stop worrying about the consequences.

The stairs creak as he climbs them far more than when she does, and for a moment, she experiences a flash of doubt and trepidation, but then she can see his face, his shoulders and chest as he keeps climbing towards her, his eyes on hers until he's there, standing before her, his gaze intense even in the darkness – hungry, wanting.

“May I?” he asks softly, his lips hovering near her own.

“Please,” she whispers back.

One kiss is all it takes to lose herself in him, in the wonder of his hands on her body, the delight of the passion surging between them, the need, the aching need pulling at her insides. She guides him to her bedroom, his lips fused to her own even as she walks backwards, pulling him with her as his hands make quick work of his jacket buttons and he shrugs it off his shoulders, draping it over the foot-board of her bed before his hands return to her, drawing her against him.

He trails kisses along her jaw, sucks on the skin of her neck, his hands encasing her ribs, moving higher, his teeth clasping her earlobe, biting down then sucking it into his mouth. “I want you,” he whispers, making her whimper.

“I... too.” Her brain's speech centre seems to have short-circuited and certainly her lips and tongue are unable to follow its directions. They're far more intent on tasting him, her hands on exploring his skin. He seems so strong and broad below his waistcoat and shirt, his arse deliciously firm under his trousers.

He growls in her ear, sending a thrill dancing down her spine, and murmurs, “Too many clothes,” as he pushes her cardigan off her shoulders, then makes short work of the buttons on her blouse to pull that off too, his lips never leaving her skin, trailing kisses down to the hollow of her throat, palms now gliding over her bare shoulders and round to cup her breasts over her spaghetti-top and bra. “How many layers?” he asks, perhaps rhetorically. Her mind is certainly unable to muster an answer.

All the air in her lungs escapes in a rush when his hands slip under her top, fingertips feathering across her stomach, making her knees tremble. He moves with purpose and skill, fingers flicking open buttons and clasps so fast, she's not quite sure how it happens but she's suddenly almost naked.

She takes a step back to catch her breath, sitting down on the edge of her bed when she feels it behind her, her hands sliding down him to the bottom of his waistcoat where, with trembling hands, she begins to unfasten the buttons. “You're overdressed, Harry,” she says, somehow recovering her ability to speak now that he's not so intent on devouring her.

He chuckles and begins to help her unbutton, starting at the top of his shirt as she works her way up from the bottom. He must have removed his tie and cuff-links in the loo because his waistcoat and shirt come off without much effort, followed by his vest and trousers, leaving him standing in his underwear and socks like her.

“Now we're even,” he murmurs, slowly leaning over her, forcing her to lie back and shift up the bed so that there's room for both of them. “Let's get under the covers,” he suggests, tugging the corner of the duvet towards her, and after a little more manoeuvring on both their parts, they're lying side by side below them. She shivers at the change in temperature, but is glad for the warmth of the duvet. It's May and she refuses to use the heating so late in the spring, even if her home is still chilly at night sometimes.

He's watching her, gaze intense and probing, and she can't help feeling a little self-conscious all of a sudden, the haze of lust having dissipated somewhat. “Are you sure about this, Ruth?” he asks softly, covering her hand with his under the duvet. “I don't want...” he pauses, searching for words.

“Don't worry, Harry,” she says quickly. “I won't demand anything of you come morning.”

He searches her gaze in the gloom, perhaps looking for signs that she is lying. She's not. She knows Harry cannot offer her anything more; she doesn't _want_ anything more from him if she's honest. He's a good boss – most of the time – and she hopes, an excellent lover, but he's not relationship material in her mind. She can't imagine herself _dating_ Harry. Well, she _can_ imagine it – fantasize about it, more like – but she doesn't see how it would work. For one thing, he's her boss. For another, almost two decades her senior. And then there's the fact that she cannot see how she could ever know him well. She's just a chess piece on his chessboard. She always will be.

“I enjoyed dinner, our conversation,” she confesses. “I hadn't expected... _this_.” She moves her hand between them. “But...” She bites her lip. How does she explain what's happened tonight when she doesn't understand it herself?

He lifts himself onto his right forearm, shifting his weight towards her. “You're a beautiful woman, Ruth,” he murmurs huskily, “and I want to make love to you.”

She smiles, feeling herself blush under his gaze, the note of sincerity she hears in his voice. It isn't often that people call her beautiful, but she has a feeling he means it. She reaches up to trace a finger over a silver line running down the outside of his shoulder, an old scar that's gleaming in the muted light filtering in through the window. She's not drawn the curtains and it's never really dark in a city like London.

“Still making up for being a bastard?” she asks daringly, her tone of voice teasing.

His teeth gleam as he smiles. “Is it working?” His leg brushes up against hers, left hand reaching for her waist, running up her side, his thumb reaching round to caress the underside of her breast and making her whimper.

“I'll let you know after,” she manages to say, reaching up to pull his head down to kiss him.

 

* * *

 

No strings attached – just the way he likes it.

He leans into the kiss, lips parting hungrily as his tongue invades her mouth, his hands drawing her closer, the passion of her response to him immensely pleasing. She's wrapped her right leg around his hip, nails scraping across his back and buttocks, setting his nerves on fire as he runs his left palm down her side, squeezing her bum against him, thrusting his pelvis towards her and moaning at the friction. He needs to strip them both naked and soon.

His hand glides down further, over her thigh to her calf and foot, determined to begin the process by peeling back her socks, then grasping her foot as his lips trail down her neck, fingertips kneading the arch while he sucks and licks her fragrant skin, her whimpers of pleasure letting him know she likes it.

He's surprised to find her calves are not smooth when he glides his hand up her leg again, suggesting she hasn't shaved her legs in several days, but he finds that he rather likes it. She certainly hasn't planned on entertaining company tonight and it hints at a confidence that he finds very pleasing. He knows a lot of women would have let their insecurities get the better of them and not invited him in for sex if they'd not been perfectly manicured with fresh sheets on the bed and their house immaculately tidy. It's like she's saying, “I am who I am – take me or leave me,” and he admires that.

She moans, her leg tightening around his hip, drawing him closer as his fingers find her inner thigh and brush the edges of her underwear, pushing him ever nearer to the edge. His younger self would have stripped them in an instant, at such a response, and buried himself inside her, but he doesn't want this to be over so quickly. He rather likes drawing it out these days. God knows, such encounters are few and far between lately.

Delicately, he draws his fingers over her heat, her whimper of excitement making him smile against her neck and trail kisses lower, over her collar bone and the charm necklace nestled there, all the way down to her breasts, creating enough space between their bodies so his hand can move freely, stroking her over her damp knickers, vibrating the heel of his hand against her clit and making her cry out.

Her hands reach for his head, drawing him closer to her chest, her breathless, “Harry,” filling him with pride and pleasure. His fingers find the edge of her briefs and slip under just as his mouth closes around one nipple, the heat of her, the slickness making him moan with want and he can hold back no more. He pushes one, two, three fingers into her as he sucks rhythmically on her nipple, feeling her body tense then begin to move, her hands sliding through his hair, hips undulating in a primal rhythm, her breath escaping in pants and moans of ever increasing intensity, taking her pleasure from him without hesitation and leaving him transfixed and aching to join her.

She whimpers, her hips jerking, searching for release, and she's so magnificent that he almost loses it. He turns his hand, squeezing in another finger, his thumb over her pubic bone, the base of it connecting with her clit as he moves it back and forth a few times, giving her the friction she's searching for, and she comes, shuddering in his arms, a guttural, primal sound escaping her lips, her back arching, head tilting back as he releases her breast to watch, moved by the sight of her flying apart in pleasure. He doesn't know if he'll be able to forget this, if, back on the Grid, he'll not be assaulted by this image every time he looks at her. For now though, all he cares about is joining her, moving inside her, lifting her to new heights and rising with her, feeling sure somehow that, _together_ , they can reach new, uncharted territory of lust and passion and ecstasy.

He pulls his fingers out and sits up, causing her to whimper and roll onto her side, the duvet falling to just across her buttocks, and though he's tempted to throw caution to the wind and take her forthwith, he knows that no strings attached means condom. Quickly, he reaches into the pocket of his jacket that he'd positioned on the foot-board of the bed for easy access earlier and feels around for the square packet, pulling it out and quickly divesting himself of his socks and underwear before Ruth has even stirred. Then he slips back in bed and expertly slides it on before turning his attention to her, running his palm from her shoulder down her side to her breast, cupping it gently and smiling at the sigh of contentment that escapes her.

“Ruth?” he murmurs softly, shifting closer to her, his gaze raking over her body, heart still pounding with want.

“Mmmm?” she hums, her eyes blinking open.

He drops his gaze, shifting closer, his legs brushing against hers, detecting the presence of the one sock he'd failed to remove earlier and frowning before he reaches down to take off the offending item, running his hand up her leg to her bum, when he's done, and the last remaining garment left between them. He moves closer still, propping his weight on his right forearm, face near hers as he whispers, “I want you, Ruth. Desperately. May I?” He tugs on her knickers, he hopes his meaning clear, waiting for her permission to take her.

She smiles then sighs happily, lifting her hand to stroke his jaw, running her fingertips over his stubble, her palm curving round his cheek, eyes on his, warm and inviting. “Yes, please,” she murmurs and kisses him, drawing him towards her, hand slipping into his hair, lips hungry, passionate, her body arching towards him. He moans and pulls her close, his hand tugging her underwear downwards, but they don't seem to want to budge, what with her lying on her side and unable to lift her hips effectively.

“Sodding pants,” he growls against her lips only to have her giggle. “It's not funny, Ruth,” he complains, tugging on them harder. “Lift your arse, woman.”

“Maybe you should use both hands,” she replies, placing a quick kiss against his lips and scooting over, not onto her back as he expects, but onto her stomach, lifting her upper body with her forearms as she turns her head to look at him, her hair flying over her shoulder. “Ready?” she asks seductively and lifts her bum off the bed, the covers falling away from her, the sight of her on all fours heart-stoppingly arousing.

He groans and pulls down her knickers to her knees, unable to resist the temptation of her gorgeous arse as he reaches for it, squeezing, fingers reaching round to coast over her slick heat, making her moan, slipping his fingers inside her again, stroking, building her up, his lips and teeth kissing, scraping her buttocks until she collapses back onto the bed and he can hold back no more.

He pushes into her, his body covering hers, their breaths harsh, each exhale releasing a deep groan of pleasure, their rhythm somehow, miraculously harmonious, building to a crescendo with an elegance and grace that he's rarely experienced before, until they each tumble over, he first with a roar of utter satisfaction, then she with a cry of ecstasy muffled by the pillow as she shudders below him and he falls to the side, spent, stated, and replete, with barely enough presence of mind to make sure the condom stays on and comes with him.

Bliss. Peace. Absolute contentment.

These are not qualities that often permeate his being and he basks in the glory of it. They're not touching, and somehow that feels wrong, so he moves his right hand, searching for hers, stroking her palm when he finds it and eliciting a hum from her that makes him smile. He covers her hand with his own and gently squeezes, feeling her hand squeeze him back. He can't see her face and he's not sure if that's because she's facing the other way or because her hair and the pillow are obscuring it, but though he'd like to meet her gaze and smile at her in joy and gratitude, quip about him not being such a bastard after all perhaps, he can't muster the energy to move just yet, so he closes his eyes again and just breathes, mind blank, heart full, body relaxed and tranquil.

He dozes – he knows not for how long – but when he wakes, feeling the chill in the air around them, he realises from the slackness of Ruth's hand that she's fallen into a deep slumber. Gently he removes his hand to deal with the condom, almost sighing in relief when it comes off, then gets up to dispose of it and use the loo, covering her with the duvet, pulling his trunks and vest back on, and leaving her bedroom.

He's retrieved his watch from his jacket pocket and now sees that it's close to eleven – definitely time he headed home to see to Scarlet and grab some sleep before Charles picks him up bright and early tomorrow morning. He pees and flushes the condom down the loo – a terrible practice for the environment, he knows, but the spook in him hates to leave DNA evidence behind at someone else's place, even one that belongs to a member of his own team. Better to be safe than sorry. Then he splashed water on his face and dries it, staring at himself in the mirror for a moment, surprised by the sated look he still sees in his own eyes. It doesn't normally last this long. Then he shakes his head at himself and steps out of the bathroom, taking a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness again on the landing before slipping back into Ruth's bedroom to retrieve his clothes.

Movement catches his eye as Ruth's cat springs from the bed onto the floor and disappears under it so fast, he could have blinked and he'd have missed it. He smiles, amused by the agile creature and pleased that he will not be leaving Ruth all alone when he goes, then frowning at the realisation that it bothers him, on some level, to be sneaking out while she's sleeping. The sex had been spectacular, but there's a tenderness lurking in the shadows of his heart that he's not felt in a very long time – so long, in fact, that he'd began to think himself no longer capable of it. He'd _hoped_ he wasn't capable of it. Feelings like that are dangerous for a spook and they always lead to complications.

He hates complications.

He gathers his things, separating them out from Ruth's garments which he deposits over the foot-board before leaving the room, allowing his gaze to linger on her a moment though he cannot see her face, obscured as it is by her hair and the duvet. Her cat's eyes gleam at him from under the bed though, disapproving and hostile.

 _Alright,_ he thinks. _I'm going._ And he turns, making his way down the stairs where he finishes getting dressed, slipping his shoes back on and shrugging his coat on. At the door though, he hesitates, his conscience pricking him to be leaving without a word. He sighs, turning and trudging down the hall, peering into one room after another until he's found her kitchen, her phone, and beside it, a pen and a notepad.

“Sorry to sneak out. You looked too peaceful to wake,” he scribbles. “Thanks for everything.” He hesitates, reluctant to sign it lest it fall into the wrong hands, and eventually deciding he doesn't need to. Ruth's hardly going to think it's from someone else. He tares the slip of paper from the pad and places it carefully by the kettle, setting an Oxford Uni mug he finds on Ruth's mug-tree over half the sheet, obscuring most of the writing, but wanting to make sure it doesn't flutter to the floor by accident, or Ruth's hostile cat doesn't walk off with it in the night just to spite him.

Satisfied, he purposefully strides from the room and out through the front door, locking it from the outside and posting the keys through the letter box, hearing them fall to the floor behind the door with a satisfying jiggle and thud. They should be safe enough there, as should Ruth, safely locked inside her home – not that it would be that difficult for someone to break in if they had a mind to. He frowns, making a mental note to speak to her about it sometime soon. Didn't she learn anything from the seminar on personal security she received in training?

He shakes himself free of such thoughts and the niggle of worry that's wormed its way inside his heart at the thought of her in danger. Then he turns towards the restaurant they'd eaten at earlier, hoping to find a cab at the taxi rank near it.


	3. Chapter 3

_Tuesday, 26 th August 2003 – The Grid_

 

He suspects his night with Ruth will stay with him for a long time, perhaps become one of the most memorable of his lifetime. Three months on and he's still thinking about it, still wishing, on some level, for a repeat performance though he knows it cannot happen. The stars had aligned that night, but that sort of things doesn't happen often. If he pursued her now, all could be lost for both of them and that is something he simply cannot allow. He must be content with one night of spectacular sex and no more between them – no mean feat considering the sexual encounters he's had since have all paled into insignificance by comparison.

Luckily, Ruth had seemed fine about the whole thing, cheerful even, when she'd appeared on the newly repaired Grid again, for which he'd been really very relieved and grateful. Watching Tom deal with his mental ex-girlfriend during this op has highlighted for him how terribly things could have gone wrong with Ruth – or any other woman, for that matter – and reminded him why he remains stubbornly single. Ultimately, it's not worth the hassle or the risk and he doesn't need it. He's perfectly content to live on his own, sharing his life with his little dog and seeking out human contact whenever he feels he needs it.

He's not really cut out for intimacy, as he sees it. He's seen too much, done too much, suffered too many betrayals. Besides, the secretive lifestyle he leads could never support it and, without it, no relationship can survive for long. He has yet to meet a woman who does not desire closeness and openness from him at some point in a liaison, and though he's tried, in the past, to make it work, he no longer has the will and desire for it. Far better to have his home to himself – a sanctuary where he can relax and be himself without any need to spare a thought for another person. His work is challenging and keeps his mind sharp and engaged, he has his club for conversations with his peers, and the functions he's required to attend are the perfect venue to make contact with members of the opposite sex and seduce them. He has a small flat, a shag pad, that he uses for such occasions, that he owns under an alias and pays someone to clean once a week, and which he keeps well stocked with drinks and snacks for when the opportunity arises. He never brings women home with him – that would be too dangerous and too much of an intrusion into his privacy, and besides, as the most important female in his life, he rather thinks Scarlet might disapprove of such a practice.

He smiles at the thought only to see Ruth frown at him, causing him to hastily relax his features and look away. He's been watching her without realising it again. _Bloody woman._ It must be that top she's wearing today that's stirred his blood so unexpectedly. The colour of it, the way it tapers down to a V just between her breasts, her pendant dangling just below, sometimes falling into the crevice, making her lift it out again, so distracting, tantalising, so tempting. He would never have guessed that such a frilly, bohemian top could test his resolve, his self-control so completely. It must be the reddish colour – just the right shade to draw attention and lead to temptation, yet not quite the right colour to match her lips that are, today, devoid of lipstick. For some odd reason, this bothers him and he's become somewhat fixated on it, though he knows it's quite ridiculous. He wants to go over there and tell her to paint them the same colour as her blouse or go change it, to stop distracting him and tormenting him or... or...

_Or what?_

He covers his eyes with his hand for a moment, sternly telling himself to pull himself together. _What the fuck is the matter with you, Harry?!_

No strings. He'd wanted no strings.

_Bugger!_

 

* * *

 

Waking up to find him gone with no trace of him left behind – save the barest hint of his cologne lingering on her pillow – had been simultaneously disappointing and a cause of great relief for, though on the one hand she's felt a little used by him, on the other, she'd have felt incredibly awkward and embarrassed to have woken beside him, sober and nude, in the clear light of day, with him, her _boss,_ equally naked beside her. Besides, she'd never expected him to stay really. She knows he gets driven into work each morning, so he'd have had to be back for his driver, and he'd have wanted a shower and change of clothes too, and it's always nicer to sleep in ones own bed when all is said and done, without an audience. It had been a purely physical thing that they'd shared. There'd been no reason to linger longer, no need for closeness or an emotional connection. It wasn't the beginning of something. It's not love. And once she'd found his note and realised he'd not abandoned her without a word like some prostitute, she'd felt a whole lot better about things, guessing that it's not his usual MO, to leave something like that behind. She rather thinks that, as a consummate spy, he'd simply dissolve into the shadows leaving no trace of himself to speak of.

He hadn't signed it or used her name and she rather thinks that was done deliberately too, most likely to avoid anyone being able to link it back to him. It wouldn't surprise her if he'd used his left hand to write it, she'd thought with amused fondness as she'd sipped her tea, staring down at the slip of paper, and when later, she'd thought to look, she'd found no trace of the condom he'd used last night either. _Bloody spook. A regular James Bond, aren't you, Harry?_

Still, it had been good to know that he'd made an exception for her, had tried to smooth things over, even if the only reason had been that they still need to work together. That part had probably been the hardest – walking onto the Grid that afternoon when it had finally become serviceable once more – and she'd needed to gather all her courage to accomplish it.

She needn't have worried in the end. He'd been busy talking to Tom and she'd been swept up by greetings from others, booting up her computer and finalising the report she'd started the day before, so that, by the time she'd come face to face with him, she'd quite forgotten to be nervous and had simply smiled at him and said hello. She'd spotted the relief in his eyes and the warmth that had infused them afterwards and is ashamed to admit that she'd blushed, dropping her gaze and taking a deep breath before she could lift her eyes to his again, only to find him walking away from her with a murmured greeting of, “Ruth,” thrown over his shoulder.

After that first encounter, everything had been fine – well, mostly fine, as long as she managed not to think about it too much and stay focused on her work. After a few days without incident and the way he maintained his professionalism at all times around her, she'd relaxed and allowed her mind to let go of the anxiety of being found out, or having Harry hold what happened between them over her head to manipulate her – something she'd not really believed he'd do, but then again, she'd not believed he'd pretend to be dying either.

And of course, that's not to say that her view of him hasn't shifted, that she's not started to see him more as a man, rather than an untouchable and unattainable Head of Section. And inevitably, the crush she's had on him for a while now has morphed into something else too, something more physical and real – a desire, a lust, a yearning for the pleasure he had delivered so effortlessly. The sex had been too good for a repeat performance not to be tempting, but she'd promised him she wouldn't ask anything more of him and she means to honour that promise, no matter how sorely she is tempted by his hot, three-piece, tailored suits, the provocative way he struts around, exuding strength, power and authority, his seductive hazel eyes alert, calculating, and his sensuous, soft lips pouting, begging to be kissed and savoured. What would he do if she just strode up to him and kissed him, she finds herself wondering far too often now, her imagination invariably conjuring hot, steamy scenes between them that set her insides to aching for him.

But she promised, and she loves her job too much to jeopardise it by shagging the boss and risking him, and others, thinking she's doing it to further her career. She has too much self-respect for that and too strong a sense of justice and self-preservation.

And besides, she still doesn't believe it can lead anywhere for them. Nothing's changed. He's still not looking for a relationship, she's sure, and she still doesn't see him as relationship material. She wants intimacy from the man she's with, and she's sure, Harry can't give her that – he's been a spy too long and he's too far above her in the Service. She doesn't want more mind games when she gets home from work. She wants a kind, gentle man, with a warm, open heart, who thinks the world of her, who really wants her, and with whom, she can build a warm, stable home that anchors her and nurtures her and gives her something to rely on and fight for. She's not at all sure how she'll find this man, but she hasn't yet given up hope that she will, one day.

In the mean time though, she can't help the way the sight of Harry in black tie today set her heart to pounding as she'd stared at him and licked her lips before she'd caught herself and looked away, terrified someone might have noticed. Her hope is that she's not nearly as glamorous for people to believe she'd attract his attention – even if they _do_ pick up on this silly crush/lust she's developed for him – but when he stares at her, like he was a moment ago, a soft smile flirting with his lips, she can't help but worry that people will start to notice. She hates being gossiped about and the thought of what people would think and say about her if they knew she'd slept with Harry is enough to give her nightmares and infuse her with a new strength to stay the hell away from him, and keep her eyes off him too while she's at it.

That is until the end of the day, after everyone's gone home and it's just the two of them left on the Grid from the day crew – something that's starting to happen more and more often lately – and he stealthily approaches her station, his hazel eyes ablaze with want and a quiet sort of desperation, as he softly whispers, “Ruth,” and she feels herself surrender to the temptation incarnate that is Harry Pearce.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_Tuesday, 26 th August 2003 – Ruth's Place_

 

“Bloody hell, Ruth,” he breathes, his heart still pounding, the sheer electricity they've created sizzling through his body, muscles turned to liquid, his whole _being_ sighing in bliss.

She hums and presses her lips against his neck, her warm, soft body still covering his, her breathing heavy from the exertion, skin damp with perspiration. For several minutes, they don't move, basking in the glory of the moment, the wondrous sensations, his hands softly stroking her back, moving up and down her sides as their breathing and heart-rates slow.

“ _Christ,_ that was good,” he whispers eventually, overcome by relief and joy, squeezing her against him in gratitude and complete and utter satisfaction. _Christ,_ he'd needed this.

She lifts her head and upper body, supporting her weight on her arms, her eyes sparkling down at him in the light coming from the lamp in the corner, the covers slipping from her shoulders down her back, the cool air infiltrating the space between them. It's good to see her this time, good that they're both alert and able to enjoy the moment.

“Isn't it always?” she teases, lifting her eyebrows at him, her cheeks creasing into dimples as she smiles.

Is she serious, he wonders. Is it always spectacular for her, no matter who she sleeps with?

She laughs, the quivering of her abs pushing his softening cock out of her, and he takes the opportunity to deflect her attention from him, muttering, “Hang on,” as he reaches round her thigh to grasp the condom and make sure it stays on until she's slipped off him, rolling onto the bed beside him with a gentle sigh of satisfaction. Once he's removed it and tied the end into a knot, ready to dispose of later, he turns on his side to face her, finding her lying on her side, head on the pillow and hands tucked under it, her eyes on him, full of a playful sort of mischief.

He's not quite sure what to think, his ego still smarting, the knowing smile on her lips only adding to his growing irritation, primarily with himself for allowing her jibe to get below his defences.

“You have a gorgeous pout,” she says, reaching her right hand up to his chin, running her thumb across his lower lip and humming appreciatively.

“I don't pout,” he objects.

She grins at him. “Yes, you do.”

“Three-year-olds pout, Ruth. I'm not three.”

“No,” she agrees, her face suddenly serious, fingers sliding up his jaw, palm cupping his cheek. “You're almost fifty.”

He's rather pleased to hear she remembers that his birthday is coming up soon, but not quite sure what to make of her shifting mood. Is she thinking he's too old for her? Does it really matter if she does? It's just sex after all – he'd made that perfectly clear _again_ when he'd approached her on the Grid earlier.

“I am. Is that a problem?” Perhaps she's lamenting the limitations she thinks his age places on their lovemaking. The thought annoys him and he's determined suddenly to prove to her that he's more than capable of satisfying her every desire, her every need in bed.

“No.” She lifts her eyes to his and smiles. “I was just wondering where I'll be when I turn fifty.”

The impulse to tell her she'll be right here, with him, is too great for comfort. Instead he says, “Maybe you'll be running Section D.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “And where will you be, Harry?”

_In your bed._

_Jesus!_ He needs to snap out of it and fast. _Pull yourself together, man!_

“Well, assuming I survive that long, I'll be... somewhere. Wherever washed-up spooks go to live out their remaining days after retirement.” Her eyes are watching him intently and it's a little disconcerting. His lovers are normally mellow, charming, and very grateful after sex. Not Ruth, it would seem. It shouldn't surprise him, but it does. “I could write my memoirs,” he jokes.

Her eyes flash with amusement. “As Head of Section D, I'd have to take you in if you did that, Harry. Tie you up. Give you a good thrashing.”

He grins. “As long as you did it personally,” he whispers seductively, moving closer.

“You wouldn't mind?” she asks, teasingly.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On how thoroughly you do your job,” he says, leaning in to brush his lips over her cheekbone, his hand gliding over her shoulder and down her back to her bum. “On how rough you are with my equipment.” Here he reaches for her hand and brings it down between them, pressing his hardening length into her open palm, desire racing through him at the way her eyes widen and darken, her lips lift in a smirk, her hand closes around him.

“That was quick,” she comments, sounding rather impressed and he can't help the way it buoys his spirits and makes his chest expand with pride. He's better at something after all and definitely not too old to satisfy her.

“What can I say?” he murmurs. “I've always been quick on the draw.”

She giggles then tightens her grip, making him draw in a sharp breath.

“Careful,” he whispers, shifting closer, the fingers of his left hand trailing down her spine as his lips feather kisses across her jaw to her ear.

She sighs, her hand relaxing its grip but not releasing him altogether, beginning to glide along his length instead, gently massaging, making him harden more and exhale in pleasure, his fingertips feathering across her skin, his lips pressing soft kisses against her shoulder as he closes his eyes and just enjoys her touch for a moment.

“Do you have more condoms?”

“Mmmm,” he hums. “Three more, I think.”

Her hand stops moving, so he lifts his head to look at her. “What?”

“Seriously?” she questions, a smile hovering around her lips, eyes sparkling at him. “You usually use that many?”

“Well, no,” he confesses. “Mostly they're just in case one tears or gets too dry or something.”

She giggles, then begins to laugh in earnest, lifting her hand to cover her mouth as he draws back, utterly confused by her outburst, his pride hurt at the thought of her laughing at him. “What's so funny?”

“I'm sorry,” she gasps, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “It's not you, I just thought...” and she cracks up again, falling onto her back and tilting her head back, trying to get her laughter under control. “It's your condoms,” she manages to explain eventually. “They're on operation. They have back up. Your wallet is the OBO van!” And she starts laughing again, gasping, “I should make them legends,” and dissolving into giggles.

And now he's chuckling too, utterly charmed by her, feeling something shift deep inside him as he watches her, a tiny spark igniting where everything was cold and dark before, a heat beginning to spread through his chest, warming him from the inside.

_Bugger! This is not good, Harry. This is not good at all._

 

* * *

 

“Can we do this again?” he murmurs into her hair, his arms still wrapped around her, holding her close.

She smiles, a part of her thrilled to hear him suggest that. “I think it might be a little late for that right now, Harry,” she teases.

“I meant another time, next week, next month, whenever.” His lips find the spot just below her ear that he'd discovered earlier, parting and allowing his tongue to brush against it, warm and wet.

She moans, trembling in his arms, utterly unable to control her reaction.

“Is that a yes?” he growls, sounding smug.

“Mmmm,” she hums. “As what, Harry? Colleagues with benefits?”

He chuckles and pulls back to look at her. “Works for me.”

She watches him, his warm, hazel eyes, soft lips curled in a smile, the pleasure and hope shimmering in his gaze. Would it be so bad to agree? They've had fun and the sex has been fantastic.

“I don't know, Harry,” she replies, watching his eyes cloud over. “It's been good. Really very good. Both times. But... Let's see, shall we?”

He purses his lips and slips his hands into his pockets. “You're worried it won't be as good next time?”

“I'm worried this could get more complicated than either of us can afford, Harry.”

He tilts his head to the side. “I'm not about to fall in love with you, Ruth,” he murmurs, surprising her. Is that really the only complication he can foresee? And what kind of man tells that to a woman anyway? Is he _trying_ to issue a challenge? _Could_ she make him fall in love?

_Don't go there, Ruth._

“I didn't think you would,” she replies with a frown. “You're not looking for a relationship. I understand that. The thing is, Harry, I am.” She sees him frown. “Not with you, obviously. But I haven't given up hope that I'll find someone I want to share my life with one day, and when I do, I can't very well tell him I'm having periodic sex with my boss, can I?”

A slow, sly smile spreads across his lips at that, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“No, don't answer that,” she hastens to add. “Besides, that's not the only issue. It's easy for you. You're the boss. No one would dare say anything against you. But for me... What if people found out about it? I don't want them to think I'm sleeping my way to the top. I'm bloody good at my job and I don't want-”

“I wasn't suggesting we make it public knowledge, Ruth,” he objects. “I know we must be careful, for both our sakes. But this is _good_. Sex like this... I don't know about you, but, in my experience, it's not so easy to find... I was just suggesting that, _maybe,_ away from work, if we both feel like it, _sometimes,_ provided we're both still single...” He tails off, looking at her earnestly.

“You're suggesting we ring each other when we need a really good shag,” she clarifies boldly. “No strings attached. Just sex sometimes, when we both want it.”

“Yes.”

It's tempting. It's very tempting. He's not the man of her dreams, but he's not wrong about the sex either. It really is better than any she's had in a long time. Would it not be better to be shagging Harry, she asks herself, while she waits to meet her Mr Right, than to be sitting home alone, watching the Red Shoes for the millionth time with only Fidget for company? They seem to have managed alright, after last time, to keep this out of their work interactions. He's a good spy, good at hiding things, and she has no feelings for him – other than a grudging admiration and respect, lust, of course, and a strong desire to experience again and again the physical pleasure of their sexual encounters. He's really a very experienced and generous lover. She'd be mad to turn him down, wouldn't she? He's right, after all – he's not likely to fall for her and make this messy and complicated, and as for herself... she's pretty confident that she can handle it. She's got her eyes wide open. She knows what she's getting herself into and that this is the extent of it. She's not hoping for more, to get him to fall in love with her or anything – though she's rather tempted to try after his very confident declaration, just for the satisfaction of proving him wrong. The only part that worries her is that he still might use their liaison against her in the future. He is a spy after all and has proven he can be a rather manipulative bastard when he has to be.

“What if we do this and one of us changes their mind?” she asks.

He purses his lips. “C'est la vie. I would respect that and not hold it against you. I hope you would likewise.”

“Really, Harry?” she presses him.

“You don't believe me?” He frowns, looking rather offended.

“Well,” she replies, tilting her chin up defiantly, “you're a spy and – forgive me for saying this – but I don't think I need to remind you that you can be rather manipulative when it suits you. A right bastard, in fact.”

His frown deepens, but he doesn't deny it. “So that's a no then,” he says.

“I didn't say that. First, I need some assurances.”

“You have them. As much of a bastard as I have to be for work, I thought you understood that that doesn't extend into my personal life. I would never coerce or force _any_ woman to-”

“I know you wouldn't,” she says quickly. She hadn't meant that at all. “That's not what I'm saying.”

“What _are_ you saying then?”

“I'm saying you have to give me your word you won't use thisto manipulate me into doing things for _work,_ even when you feel an operation demands it. You find another way to convince me, but this arrangement needs to remain off the table for any sort of negotiation, even when it's for Queen and country.”

He purses his lips, his hands deep in his pockets. “It's a bit late to worry about that now, isn't it, Ruth?”

She frowns at him, suddenly feeling apprehensive and uncertain. Has she misjudged his character so completely?

No. She doesn't think so.

“You're testing me,” she says after a moment, guessing he's a little hurt to have her question his honour like this. She's sorry to have hurt his feelings, but she doesn't regret it. She rather thinks he'd not have given it much thought if she hadn't pressed him now and would likely have used their arrangement against her, if the need arose, without a second's consideration. Now, at least, she's certain that he'll think long and hard about it beforehand. “Alright. I agree. Let's try it. Colleagues with benefits, it is.”

“You're sure?” he presses her, his eyes on hers, gaze intense and calculating.

“Yes. I don't believe you'd betray my trust as I wouldn't betray yours,” she says. Harry may be many things, but disloyal he is not and she believes that, deep down, he's a gentleman. It costs him dearly when he has to hit below the belt because his job demands it.

He watches her for a moment more before pulling his right hand out of his pocket and holding it out to her, like he's waiting for a handshake. “Deal?” he murmurs huskily.

“Deal,” she replies, placing her hand in his and shaking it once before he tugs hard, causing her to stumble into his chest, his other arm wrapping around her back, his hand cupping her bum as he pulls and holds her against him while he kisses her soundly.

“You are the most frustrating, most exasperating, most infuriating woman I know, and so sexy with it that I can't seem to get enough of you,” he growls against her lips and kisses her again, sending shivers of pleasure running up and down her spine. She's wondered why it is he finds her so desirable and is rather proud to hear that it's because she stands up for herself and her principles instead of bending over backwards to please him. She supposes it makes perfect sense, if she thinks about it, for someone in his position of authority to value and admire that, when every other lover he's had was probably a spineless pushover, coveting a part of the prestige and power he has, going out of her way to please him. He probably enjoys the ego trip, but she can imagine it would get rather boring after a while.

“What can I say?” she replies, mirroring his words from earlier as she looks up at his face, smiling, “I've never been a pushover. I'm not about to start now.”

He chuckles, pressing his lips against her forehead before pulling back. “So we're agreed then?”

“Yes. But not at work, Harry. You don't ask again at work, alright? No conversations, no innuendos – nothing. We hide this from everyone.”

“Tell you what,” he murmurs, “I'll get us a couple of burner phones for this express purpose. Alright?”

“Right. Good. And we should agree on a very subtle signal perhaps. So we know to expect a phone call later, once we're home, to arrange the details.”

He chuckles. “You think of everything.”

“I try.” She smiles, chuffed to hear him say that. “Now you should go and I need to get some sleep. I'm sure the lull after POTUS's departure won't last long.”

“You're probably right.” He smiles, his eyes lingering on her for a moment.

“POTUS makes me think of a hippopotamus,” she confesses, making him chuckle again.

His eyes sparkle fondly at her. “Sweet dreams, Ruth,” he murmurs and brushes his lips against hers once, then turns away, opening the front door and slipping out into the night. She doesn't linger with the door open, closing and locking it quickly to shut out the night-time chill and running back up the stairs, wrapped in nothing but her dressing gown.

A bath would be nice, she thinks, going back into her bedroom to find her slippers and collect her pyjamas and clean knickers before heading off to run her bath, oddly content and at peace with the agreement they've reached. Who knows? Perhaps having Harry in her bed regularly will diffuse some of the tension between them on the Grid and make it easier to hide their mutual attraction from everyone else. She could use a reprieve from that.

Briefly, she wonders how long it can possibly last, this lust they both feel for each other. A few weeks? A few months if they're lucky?

And then what?

She drops a dollop of bubble-bath mixture in the bath and ties her hair up to keep it dry, slipping out of her dressing gown and easing herself into the hot water with a sigh of contentment. Gently she traces the mark Harry left on her left breast with her fingertips, leaving a trail of bubbles behind. What if he leaves a similar mark on her heart? Several months is a long time. What if she falls for him – this man who can be so charming and has such stamina and charisma, can give her such good orgasms every time they're together? What will she do then when he ends it?

She sighs, switching the water off and lying back, the sudden stillness in the room making her thoughts too loud for comfort.

_Bit late to worry about that now, Ruth._

She'll just have to guard her heart, that's all. Harry's not the one for her. She knows that. He knows that. Everyone in the bloody Service knows that. Harry Pearce doesn't settle down. He doesn't do intimacy. And he's got a long list of affairs and a failed marriage to prove it. He's just a... hot-water bottle, a place holder in her bed until the real love of her life comes along and that's that.

_End of story._

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Apologies for any confusion the last line of the previous chapter caused. It was Ruth's thought, not a note from me. Moving on to episode 2.07 in this chapter. A bit shorter this time, but hopefully, still good. Thanks for continuing to read and review. Cheers, S.C.

_Friday, 19 th September 2003 – The Grid_

 

She seeks him out though part of her is screaming at her that it's too soon and she needs to give him time to realise that she had no choice and that she was only voicing what everyone else was thinking too. But he's her part-time lover and, though they'd agreed it's just sex and nothing more, like it or not, they are connected now on a deeper level than before. You can't have someone see you naked, touch you intimately, move inside you, and shatter in your arms without something shifting between you, a level of intimacy springing up where there had been none before.

And then there had been what Zoe had said to Tom – “Oh, and you think he'd do the same for us?” Zoe doesn't seem to think so, but she has a feeling that he might. He has many faults, but Harry is a loyal man and a fair one. He made a mistake in taking work home, especially work containing such top secret, crucial information for their current op, but she can understand the temptation – that he was tired at three in the morning and just wanted to go back to bed. She might have risked it herself in those circumstances. It's just such a shame he forgot the briefcase when he left home this morning. _Poor Harry._ He must be really beating himself up right now.

His gaze is fathomless and his face composed into an expressionless mask when he lifts his head to look at her, but his appearance is so much more dishevelled than usual – his collar unbuttoned at the top most deliciously – that she experiences a flash of desire at the sight of him. He's not rung her, nor she him, since their last time together. He's not even given her the burner phone he'd promised to get for each of them. It's only been two weeks after all and, she suspects, neither of them wants to appear too eager. As she looks at him now, she can't help but wonder if he'll ever ring her now. She's sure she read surprise and hurt in his gaze when she told him that he had to tell Six about the stolen briefcase. He hadn't been expecting that from _her_. Which is exactly why she's here now.

She crosses the room to stand by his desk and, when he doesn't speak, she takes a steadying breath and says, “I'm sorry, Harry. Really very sorry. If there's anything I can do to help, I will. You know that, don't you?”

He nods, his face still giving nothing away. “Thank you, Ruth.”

She hesitates then gives him an encouraging smile and turns to leave, knowing there's really nothing more to say.

“You were right,” he murmurs, once she's taken a couple of steps away from him, causing her to stop short and turn to face him again. “The op must come first.”

His eyes have softened and she's so relieved to see it that her face relaxes into a warm smile. “We'll find a way, Harry, to get Firestorm _and_ to save your career, _all_ our careers. We're a resourceful bunch.”

He relaxes a fraction more, his lips forming a crooked smile for a moment before he gets up, taking a large, padded envelope from his drawer and approaching her, murmuring, “Ever the optimist, eh Ruth?”

“Life's hard enough without expecting lemons,” she replies and is pleased to hear him chuckle.

“Well then,” he says, and hands her the envelope, “just in case we all survive this with our jobs still intact.”

The item inside is hard and she guesses it's that mobile he'd promised to get her, so she doesn't open it now. She swallows and lifts her eyes to his, the heat in their depths making her insides do a little flip and she has to lick her lips to moisten them before she can speak. “Thank you.”

He opens his mouth to say something, then seems to think better of it, giving her a curt nod instead and turning back to his desk while she goes back to her station to help Zoe find their clean-skin, crossing her fingers that all will turn out well in the end. She can't imagine working here without Harry. She'd miss him terribly and not just in her bed either.

 

* * *

 

He knows it's fully charged and he suspects she'd turned it on the moment she'd got home, is probably fiddling with it now or staring at it like him – Hoping? Dreading it will ring? He's not sure – but as he sits in his armchair with a glass of whisky in one hand and the burner phone in the other, he hesitates, unsure if this is such a good idea. If he rings her tonight and goes round to hers, he's not sure that it's just sex he'll be after this time. She was right. Everything's getting muddled, confused, messy and he hates that. He doesn't do relationships for this very reason. Once he starts seeking her out for comfort, reassurance, and emotional support, it's a slippery slope from there and he doesn't like where it might lead him. He should end it really before any or all of that happens, but the idea of never having Ruth again is something he somehow cannot stomach.

 _No._ He'll tire of her eventually, like he has with every other woman before her, but he's not yet got her out of his system, and until he loses interest in her, he'll find a way to make it work. He'll have his cake and eat it too – he's a master at that kind of thing. He just needs to pace himself and control the parameters of their encounters: self-control, self-denial when necessary.

Perhaps he should ring someone else instead tonight, Martina perhaps from the Italian Embassy Trade Reception, or Ines or – what was the other one's name from the Annual Embassy Event Expo? It would be very short notice but... He sighs. Who's he kidding? None of them are probably free tonight and it's already past nine. Not to mention the fact that he'll have to take them out somewhere for a drink at the very least, make small talk, use a legend, and play the seduction game. That's not something that appeals tonight. He wants something straightforward, something honest and open. And he wants Ruth.

Perhaps he should just stop over-thinking it. Perhaps he should just ring her and see, go from there...

But what if Ruth's opinion of the way they'd used JJ, the way he'd acted today matches that of Zoe? What if she rejects him tonight, or worse still, reconsiders their whole arrangement? Or what if she invites him round ostensibly for sex, but really to have a go at him for using JJ? And why does he feel this annoying need to justify his actions and have her understand him? It shouldn't matter what any of them think of him and his motives. They're the troops and he's the leader, but Ruth... Ruth's opinion of him matters to him more than is should, and that brings him full circle to the reason why he cannot ring her tonight. No emotional entanglements. He's too vulnerable tonight to see her.

He sighs and resolutely puts down the phone on the table before lifting his glass to his lips to down the rest of his drink. Whisky, a long walk with Scarlet, and an early night will just have to do. Tomorrow is another day that perhaps will not include quite so many lemons. He smiles at the thought, and the memory of Ruth it brings with it, before getting up and saying to his little dog, “Come on, Scarlet. Let's go for a walk, eh?”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you, all, for continuing to follow and review this fic. I appreciate each and every one of you. This chapter is set at the beginning of 2.08, that lovely scene with the umbrella (and I've borrowed some dialogue from there). I figure this happens at least a couple of weeks before the rest of the episode, based on Tom complaining, at some point, that he's been undercover for two weeks and has discovered nothing. Hope that makes sense and that you enjoy. Oh, and this is M rated. Cheers, S.C.

_Friday, 10 th October 2003 – The Grid_

 

“Would you like a lift home, Ruth?” he asks daringly, adding quickly, “It's pouring outside and, with the strikes, it's going to be exceptionally difficult for you to get home.”

She'd lifted her eyes sharply to his face when he'd first spoken, her brow creasing in a frown, but he sees her expression change as she contemplates the wisdom of his words. She sighs and nods. “Thank you, Harry. I confess that would be very nice.”

“Go to the bus stop as usual then and, when Charles drives past, I'll ask him to pull over and offer you a lift,” he suggests. “That way it'll look spontaneous and no one will be any the wiser.”

She smiles. “You're a sly one, Harry Pearce.”

He tilts his chin up, his collar suddenly feeling tight at the way she's looking at him. “Perhaps later...” he ventures, then tails off, remembering her request that he not broach the subject of their arrangement again at work.

“I'd like that,” she replies softly, surprising him and buoying his spirits considerably at the prospect of an evening spent in Ruth's bed. “After Charles drops you off at home though,” she clarifies quickly.

“Of course,” he agrees readily. He no more wants their arrangement to become common knowledge than she does. “I could bring dinner over if you like,” he adds before he can think better of it.

“I'll make us something,” she suggests quickly, then turns away, clearly recollecting that they shouldn't be speaking about this at work, even if the Grid is quite deserted and they're alone in his office together.

He watches her go for a moment, his mood lifting even more at the thought of what awaits him later, the quiet dinner they will have together followed by really good sex. It'll be the forth time they've been together and he cannot wait to have her again. Normally he enjoys the novelty and passion of the first encounter with a woman the most, the excitement of the unknown, the discovery, and the conquest, then things go downhill from there. In fact, it's a rare woman that he sees more than three times, and he can't even remember the last time his desire for someone actually increased with each encounter. He supposes it must have happened initially with Jane – else why would he have dated her so long and then married her? Then again, in those days, he'd been more open. He'd had friends – Jane had been one of them. He'd had hopes and dreams and ambitions. He'd wanted, had planned to have it all.

Now he knows better. The losses, the betrayals have taken their toll and he understands, now, that having it all is a pipe-dream. He doesn't believe there is a woman alive worthy of such a level of trust, one who would stand by him through thick and thin, her loyalty unshakable, her love all-forgiving. Besides, even if such a woman existed, he's sure she'd choose someone else to love. Why would she saddle herself with him – such a dark, sorry, limited bastard?

He blinks, setting aside these thoughts as he turns to ring down to the desk and let Charles know he'll be ready to go in a few minutes, the sight of Ruth collecting her things and leaving the Grid galvanising him into action. No need for regrets, he tells himself, when there is the prospect of sharing a meal with a beautiful, desirable woman tonight before making love to her.

“Don't you two have homes to go to?” he asks Danny and Zoe as he passes by them on the Grid.

“Tube strike. It's raining. No cabs,” Danny explains.

“We train you to be resourceful. I'm sure you'll find a way.” He smiles, unable to contain his good humour.

“Maybe we could book out a pool car on strike days?” Danny asks hopefully.

_Nice try, Danny._

“Operational purposes only, I'm afraid,” he replies. “I _can_ provide you with specially designed waterproofing equipment.” He lifts his umbrella, unclasping the strip of fabric holding it together. “Standard field officer issue. Press this button here.” Danny and Zoe both smile, which makes him feel rather pleased. They rarely enjoy his jokes, unlike Ruth who often laughs at them, especially when they're alone and especially after sex.

He leaves them to it, whistling as he takes the lift down and crosses the garage, cheerfully greeting his driver. Then as planned, once they're level with the bus stop, he leans forward and asks Charles to pull over, rolling down the window to offer Ruth a lift. She's drenched, poor thing, and no one could blame her for not hesitating long before accepting his offer. He moves over to make room for her and they set off once more with Ruth safely buckled in beside him while they talk about the dreadful weather, the strike, and other, mostly work related matters.

He says goodnight to her and watches her get out of the car and make her way to her front door, but he doesn't get to make sure she makes it inside safely before Charles drives off again. He tries not to let that worry him. She manages to get herself inside her home every night without incident and he doesn't spend his time worrying about it then. Why should tonight be any different?

Once home, he lets Scarlet out into the back garden for a few moments, but the rain hasn't let up much, so she quickly does her business and whines to be let back in where he lovingly rubs her dry with a towel and gets her food ready before heading upstairs to have a quick shower and shave, and to change into something more comfortable.

Then he gathers a bottle of wine from his stash in the kitchen, his umbrella, and the car keys, before saying goodbye to Scarlet, who looks rather sad to see him go so soon again, and making his way to the car, having promised her that he'll make it up to her later.

The traffic is murder, but the prospect of what awaits him at Ruth's keeps his spirits up and his temper under control. By the time he gets there, it's already almost ten.

She takes a moment to answer the door, swinging it open for him and offering him a quick smile before she darts away again, saying, “Come in, Harry. Sorry. The food needs me.” So he steps into the house, closing and locking the door behind him, hanging up his coat and slipping off his shoes to avoid wet footprints in her home before going in search of her in the kitchen.

She's standing over the sink, steam billowing all around her as she drains their spaghetti, her hair tied up in a ponytail, feet bare, apron strings around her waist and neck, her figure tightly clad in a knee-length, form-fitting, red dress that almost stops his heart, then sets it to pounding. What is it about the colour red on this woman?

As if sensing his presence in the doorway, she says, without looking at him, “We're eating in the dining room. Perhaps you could set the table? I dumped the forks and knives and whatnot in there, but haven't had a chance to arrange them. Sorry. I had a slight problem with the shower, so I'm running rather late.”

He swallows and turns away to do her biding, setting the table automatically while his mind's still stuck on the vision she presents in _that_ dress and the myriad of ways that exist for him to remove it. By the time she makes an appearance with their food and sets it on the mats at one end of the table, he's more than ready to forget about the food and have her first instead.

She still has the apron on, one that's covered in cats and proclaims proudly, “Crazy cat lady” – how very Ruth – but somehow that only adds to the appeal of her, making her seem more real, more desirable, more sexy. Since when is it that whimsical imperfections in a woman set his heart to racing like this? He suspects the answer is since Ruth, but he can't be worrying about that now. He wants one thing and she is standing right before him.

 _Christ_ , but he loves this arrangement. He loves that it's all about the sex, that he doesn't have to pretend to be here for any other reason, doesn't have to make small talk or slowly ease into intimacy, or pretend that he can wait because, truthfully, he can't.

“Harry?” She sounds surprised when he moves forward, pulling out one of the chairs and trapping her between the table and his body as she turns, his lips coming down on hers hungrily, her hitched breath, her hum of pleasure as she slips her arms over his shoulders and tangles her fingers in his hair, her moan as he cups her arse and squeezes, music to his ears.

“You're irresistible,” he growls between kisses, his hands pulling her against him, then wrapping round her thighs, lifting her onto the table. “I want you, Ruth. Now. I want...” He licks the shell of her ear, her whimpers of pleasure, her passion and his need for her surging, intoxicating. “I want,” he repeats, his hands pushing her dress up, her legs spreading wider to accommodate him as he presses himself between them. “I want.”

“I want never gets,” she whispers seductively, her hands drawing him closer, legs wrapping around his hips.

“Is that so?” he growls, easing his hand between them, pushing down so his fingertips can strum against her clit, over her dress, making her moan and thrust her hips forward, her legs releasing him to give him more room to manoeuvre. “I beg to differ. I want _does_ get because you want me too. Don't you, Ruth? You're wet, and hot, and aching. You're desperate for me. Aren't you?”

She moans breathlessly, her hands grasping his head and drawing him to her for a passionate kiss, her hips undulating against him, and when she pulls back, her voice is breathless and so very sexy. “Begging gets,” she says, her eyes ablaze with want. She reaches back to undo the straps, then pulls her apron off and tosses it aside before untying her hair and reaching for him again, hands fisting in his jumper as she begins to lean back onto the table – luckily there's plenty of room beside their food and place settings – gaze locked with his, the invitation in her eyes unmistakable.

“Are you begging?” he asks, the sight of her so erotic, it sets his hands to trembling with the effort of holding himself back. He can't give in to her seduction. Not yet. His ego demands that she be the one to capitulate first.

“ _You_ are,” she whispers, giving him an impish smile, her hands drawing him closer, arms surprisingly strong for someone her size. “You said, I beg.”

“Taking my words out of context, hmmmm? I _said_ , I beg to differ. That's not the same thing,” he murmurs, and suddenly he wants her to beg. He wants to wipe that teasing smile off her lips. He wants to give her such pleasure as to stop her brain from functioning altogether.

She's pulled his face near her own now, his hands supporting his weight on either side of her, her hips tilting below his, causing arrows of pleasure and lust to shoot through him. “I think you'll beg when you see that I'm not wearing any knickers, Harry,” she whispers, then kisses him hard.

He groans and can't resist the temptation to look, and before he knows quite what he's doing, he's pulled a chair in and is sitting between her legs, tasting her, devouring her while she bucks and moans, clamps his head between her thighs, and whimpers on the table. He's not done this in years, perhaps decades, has not wanted to, but somehow now, tonight, he's not been able to hold back, has wanted more than anything else to taste her, to turn the tables on her, to make her beg, which she does, again and again as he teases her.

Soon he can hold back no more, using his left hand to unfasten his trousers and locate a condom in his pocket before he presses a soft kiss against her heat and stands, pulling his fingers out of her. She whimpers in protest, her hands reaching for purchase on him, legs wrapping around him, her eyes opening to look at him, her gaze dark and unfocused with lust.

“You're bewitching,” he says, his hands making quick work of pushing down his trunks and putting on the condom before reaching for her hips, pulling her closer to the edge of the table and easing himself into her, their groans of pleasure mingling and filling the room.

“Christ, Ruth,” he complains as her walls flutter around him. “You feel exquisite.”

He slides out and pushes back in again slowly, savouring the feel of her, the way her insides tremble and clutch at his length, the breathless pants and whimpers escaping her throat as her eyes close and her face scrunches up with pleasure, her hands reaching, grasping for purchase. He lifts her feet, one over each shoulder, his hands gliding over the smooth skin of her legs as he moves – such gorgeous, strong legs – leaning over her, pushing deeper into her, her moans of pleasure urging him on. Her questing hands have locked onto the edge of the table now, on either side of her hips, and as he picks up the tempo of his thrusts, she matches his rhythm, pushing back against him, his cock reaching deeper inside her, her heat beginning to quiver and tremble around him as she nears the edge, her breathless, “Yes. Oh God, _yes_!” causing him to begin to pound into her until he can hold on no more and he crashes into oblivion.

How he remains standing and does not find himself in a heap on the floor, he'll never know. When he comes back to himself, her legs are no longer over his shoulders, but dangling off the edge of the table. His face is buried in her chest, her fingers softly massaging his ears and stroking through his hair, his forearms on the table supporting most of his weight, trousers and trunks pooled around his ankles.

From her gentle touch, he deduces that she probably came with him though he has no recollection of it, so powerful had been his own release. He doesn't want to just assume, however, so he clears his throat and whispers, “Did you finish, Ruth?”

Her hands pause in their movement and he can hear the smile in her voice. “Yes, thank you. You didn't notice?”

“I... er... was a bit...” He's not quite sure how to finish that sentence.

“Preoccupied? Enthralled? Dazzled?” she offers.

“You're a minx,” he mutters, lifting his head to look at her.

She smiles. “I'm better than that, Harry. I'm the best you've ever had. Admit it.”

He loves this playfulness that bubbles out of her after sex and can't help smiling at her. “Well, that's a very personal question, Ruth,” he says, “and I'm certain that it's not within the parameters of this arrangement that I answer it.”

She laughs. He loves to make her laugh – why, he doesn't know. Maybe it's because she's the only one who _does_ laugh at his jokes.

He stands, offering her his hand to help her up.

Their eyes are level when she sits up, her blue eyes sparkling with mirth, her lips smiling at him, but before he can turn away to get himself sorted, her hands have reached up to cup his cheeks, her gaze softening, something that looks suspiciously like tenderness welling up in her clear blue eyes as she gazes at him and whispers, “Thank you, Harry,” before she brushes her lips against his and releases him, hopping off the table and almost making him lose his balance, what with the chair behind him and his trousers and trunks wrapped around his ankles.

“Christ!” he exclaims, grabbing hold of her as she simultaneously takes hold of his waist to steady him.

“Sorry.”

“That's alright. I'd better...” and he nods towards the door.

“I'll serve our food,” she suggests, moving out of his way so he can pull off the condom and lift his trousers and trunks before leaving the room and making his way to the loo, pleased with himself, feeling at peace and wonderfully sated.

 

* * *

 

She watches him walk back into the room, his gaze warm and relaxed, his whole being exuding a glow of contentment and satisfaction, and she can't help feeling pleased and rather proud. It's quite a wonderful feeling to inspire such lust in a man so powerful, to satisfy his need so well that he keeps coming back for more. She thinks perhaps she finally understands why some women date and marry old, rich, powerful wankers. Not that she'd ever be tempted to do such a thing herself, or that Harry's one of them. He can be a bit of a bastard sometimes, but he's alright really, once you get to know him a little.

“Better?” she asks, mischievously.

“Much,” he replies, his eyes twinkling at her as he takes a seat at the table.

“Tuck in then,” she suggests and turns to her food, ravenously taking a few mouthfuls. It's only a simple dish of spaghetti bolognese with some steamed green beans and carrots, but it tastes quite good, especially after their earlier exertions. She enjoys cooking. It relaxes her.

“This is good,” he says around a mouthful of food, which makes her smile.

They eat in silence for a few moments, then she asks, “So what did you do to Oscar Anderson?”

“Who?” He frowns at her.

“Oscar Anderson,” she repeats. “Also, Johann Schmidt, Nathan Thomas, and Alex Meijer.”

He just stares at her, dumbfounded.

“The condoms, Harry. I told you I'd make them legends.”

He laughs, that adorable wheezy sound he makes sometimes. “Aren't you missing two?”

“I never had a chance to make them legends before they disappeared without a trace,” she laments, turning to him with a wicked grin.

He chuckles.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“What did you do with them all? Where did you hide the bodies, Harry?”

He gives her a half-amused, half-speculative look now and lifts his glass to take a sip of his wine. “They're gone.”

“Yes, well, I know _that_. I happened to notice that they weren't in the rubbish any of the times you've been here. So... where did they go? Do you take them home in your pocket to give them a proper burial?” She jokes. For some reason this intrigues her, perhaps because it's such an unusual thing to do and he's being so evasive. He takes another mouthful of food, glancing at her again, and suddenly the answer comes to her. “You flushed them down the loo, didn't you?” He doesn't confirm or deny it. “You know that's terrible for the environment, Harry. Why would... Oh, I see. You don't trust me.”

He sighs and puts down his knife and fork. “It's not _you_ I don't trust, Ruth.” Then at her sceptical look, he adds, “What's the first thing we do when monitoring a suspect?”

“Set up surveillance and-”

“After that.”

“Oh. Go through their rubbish.”

He lifts his eyebrows at her as if to say, “See? I rest my case,” and turns back to his food.

But now she's worried. She frowns at him. “You think someone's going through my rubbish?”

“No, Ruth. I don't. But I'd rather be safe than sorry. I always flush them down the toilet – ever since DNA testing was invented. I'd rather not make it that easy for someone to come by evidence that they could use to incriminate me in all sorts of ways.”

She stares at him for a moment in disbelief. “Wow! I never realised you were quite that paranoid, Harry.”

“I've been a spy for twenty years, Ruth. I know what's possible. The only way you can survive in this business is if you have more on others than they have on you and if you are very, _very_ careful. You saw what happened with the briefcase. One slip up could mean the loss, the end of everything.”

She smiles at him, reaching over impulsively to squeeze his hand. “That's a whole other level of stress, Harry,” she says sympathetically.

He smiles and reaches for his wine, leaning back in this chair to take a sip. “Hence my gratitude that you've agreed to this arrangement.”

“Oh, is that what it is?” She laughs and reaches for her own wine.

He lifts one eyebrow. “Are you questioning the stress relief you provide for me, or me being grateful?”

“Well, when you put it like that, I suppose I'm questioning neither.”

“Good.” He takes another sip of his wine. He's studying her intensely again, as if he's reassessing her talents and her value to him.

“What?” she asks boldly, taking a fortifying sip of her wine.

“You're a born spook, Ruth,” he murmurs, making her cheeks flush with pleasure.

“Because I figured out what you did with Oscar Anderson?” she teases.

He smiles a crooked, little smile. “Because you're good at compartmentalising your life and detaching from your emotions when necessary. Because you're good at reading people and you have good instincts, especially when it comes to extracting information. You even managed to get _me_ to reveal more than I was willing to part with just now. That takes some skill, Ruth.”

She smiles and reaches over to squeeze his hand again in gratitude. “Don't worry, Harry. I won't betray your trust.”

“No,” he agrees softly, looking almost surprised by the realisation. “I don't believe you will.”

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

_Friday, 31 st October 2003 – The Grid_

 

She takes another sip of her wine before she begins pacing once more, staring at the burner phone in her hand, unable to decide whether to ring him or not.

She hasn't rung him yet. It's always been Harry who's made the move to suggest they spend time in bed together. And though it was always going to be difficult for her to be the one to make the first move for the first time, today, after everything that's happened, it seems so much harder than it should be.

He'd had to order the death of a man, earlier today – a war hero, someone who'd tried time and again to use the proper channels of communication to improve the lot of his men, but whose demands had always fallen on deaf ears. True – no one had forced him to go to such extremes to get the DOD's attention, but she's sure that Harry hadn't become a spy to order the execution of men like Major Curtis. None of them have. And on top of all that, Tom seems to have really taken this outcome to heart, and she's sure Harry's equally concerned about that. Seems like a particularly shitty way to celebrate a birthday, even if Harry's doesn't begin, technically, for another three hours or so.

And that's another thing that's been bothering her for several days now. What should she do about his birthday? Ignore it? Get him a card? A gift? _What?_

Perhaps the answer is nothing. She was part of the group who'd signed the card and given him the whisky today, so maybe that's enough. They're not meant to be more than colleagues to each other, after all, and she's not bought a gift for any of the others' birthdays. Besides, hasn't she spent most of the week tying herself in knots over the end of her secondment?

She'd not been entirely certain that Harry would renew it – fantastic sex or not. She's not seen him outside work in more than two weeks, but even if she had, this is exactly what she'd not wanted – any kind of special treatment for shagging the boss. She'd wanted the secondment to be renewed on her merit as an analyst alone and is very pleased, in a way, that he'd taken so long to approve it, had really thought about her value to the team – especially since the outcome had been favourable, in the end.

She takes another swig of wine, draining the glass and setting it down on the coffee table. Fidget stretches and yawns, digging his claws into the fabric of the sofa and releasing it again before he lifts one hind leg and begins to lick his balls. “Charming,” she says, then takes a seat beside him, reaching her hand over to stroke his head. He doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he starts purring. “You've got it easy, haven't you, Fidget?” she sighs.

 _Sod this._ It doesn't have to be this complicated. Things could be just as simple with Harry. She might be ringing him partly out of concern for him tonight, but so what? She wants him too. She's missed him, the fantastic sex they have together, over the last fortnight without him in her bed. So what if this is becoming more like friends with benefits, rather than just colleagues? Friends are good. She likes friends and you can never have too many of them.

She dials the number but, though she lets it ring for a long time, he doesn't answer.

 _Typical._ All that anxiety and stress over nothing.

It's hardly surprising though. He's probably still out drinking in celebration. It's not every night a man turns fifty, after all – though technically, he turns fifty tomorrow. She can't fault him for extending the celebration though. Birthdays are the one time a year people feel they have licence to do whatever they want and that's not a bad thing. It's good to let one's hair down sometimes, especially for someone like Harry, who takes life and his duty so very seriously the rest of the year.

Beside her, Fidget stretches and yawns again before he climbs onto her lap and curls up on it, purring loudly.

“ _You_ prefer me to a night out on the town, don't you, Fidget?” She smiles down at him and sighs, stroking him and trying to let go of the disappointment. Harry doesn't owe her anything. He's a free agent in more ways than one. A picture of him drinking with others, several beautiful women amongst them, flits across her mind, the stab of jealousy, making her frown in annoyance. But before she has a chance to examine her feelings more closely, the burner phone rings, making her jump and Fidget mewl in protest before springing to the floor and slinking out of the room, haughtily ignoring her apology.

“You rung?” he says, without preamble.

She smiles, far too pleased to hear his voice. “I did.”

“Sorry. I was in the shower.”

“I thought you might be out.”

“No. I just got home from the Grid. There were a few things that needed straightening out before I left.”

She smiles. He's so bloody conscientious. So much for letting his hair down. “No rest for the wicked.”

He chuckles. “Indeed.”

They fall silent for a few moments, just listening to each other breathe until he asks, “Was there something you wanted, Ruth?”

How like Harry. He's not going to make this easy for her, but that's okay. It's his birthday after all. Perhaps hearing that she wants him is the best present she could give him.

“Yes, actually, there was.”

“And what was that?”

“You, Harry. I want you.”

 

* * *

 

He'd been so tempted to ask her round to his as he'd stood naked in his bedroom, talking to her on the phone, his bed right _there_ , the thought of her writhing on it as he fucked her making him harden with want, but he'd managed to resist the temptation and he's glad of it. There's already more between them than he'd anticipated or wanted when this had began, and it wouldn't do to add fuel to the fire. He must resist his growing need for her in any way he can, so long as he doesn't have to give her up entirely. He's not at all sure he could do that now, which is more than a little worrying. He tells himself it's the physical pleasure and the convenience of their arrangement that he'll miss, the passion and honesty of their lust for each other, though sometimes he wonders if there's more to it than that.

“Happy Birthday, Harry,” she murmurs, the hand that's been caressing his chest, moving South, making him hum in appreciation. It must be after midnight.

“Thank you,” he replies, turning to press his lips against her forehead.

“Is there anything in particular you'd like me to do to celebrate?” she asks, turning and lifting herself, supporting her weight on her left forearm and looking down at him, her chestnut hair spilling over one shoulder, her eyes alight, lips smiling softly. He's had her once already – after she'd fed him the leftovers of the simple, yet delicious meal she'd cooked for her dinner – and they've dozed for a while now in each other's arms, replete and sated.

He smiles, lifting his left hand up to cup her cheek, delighting in the way she presses her face into his palm like a cat, all but purring. “One or two things spring to mind,” he admits.

She hums, lifting her eyebrows, waiting.

“You could take me in your mouth.” His voice is husky, his body stirring at the thought, but her reaction is enough to make him falter and frown. “What?” he asks softly.

“We're not exclusive, Harry,” she replies, looking rather worried. “I hate doing that with a condom – the rubber in my mouth makes me want to gag – but I don't feel comfortable without unless I know... You know.” She drops her gaze. “I'm sorry, Harry. I know you've done it for me, and it's not that I don't enjoy doing it, but-”

“It's fine,” he interrupts, his voice gravelly from the emotions she's stirred in him with those simple words. Has she dated, slept with other men? How many have there been? Were they as good, better than him, than _them_ together? Does she have a similar arrangement with some of them? What if she finds someone she really likes and falls in love? How will he cope without her?

The questions crowd his mind, jealousy and possessiveness flaring in him, vying for dominance as he slips his left hand behind her head and brings her down, kissing her passionately in a desperate attempt to drown them out.

Exclusive. He's not had an exclusive relationship in so long. Not when you count the honey-traps he's set for MI-5. It's been years, decades, so long ago he hardly remembers. In fact, he's not at all sure he's _ever_ been exclusive, ever been that faithful. Loyal, yes, but not faithful.

He rolls them over, trapping her underneath him as he unleashes his passion, desperate to vent all these emotions that have welled up, steam-rolling him, blind-siding him, ravaging his heart and mind and leaving him in turmoil.

He doesn't register her struggle until she manages to turn her head and demand breathlessly, “Harry, stop!” and pinch his side, making him draw in a sharp breath and lift his head to look at her. “I appreciate the passion, but you need to use a condom,” she says, her voice low with arousal and it's only then that he realises he's been pushing against her heat, desperate to get inside her.

“Christ,” he mutters, rolling off her onto his back with a mumbled apology as he lifts his arm to drape it across his face, his emotions more jumbled than ever as he fights the unexpected urge to weep. He sits up suddenly, swinging his legs out of bed, but before he can get up and leave, he feels her hand gently rest on his shoulder, the warmth of it, the gentleness making him stop in his tracks. He wants to run, to get away, and yet, he also wants to stay in the warmth of her embrace, in the arms of a woman, he believes, he _feels_ , has come to care for him, just a little.

“It's alright, Harry,” she murmurs soothingly. She rubs her hand across his shoulders, her touch comforting and soothing. “You don't have to go.” Her voice is soft, inviting and it calms him. “Come back to bed. Stay a while longer.”

Her fingers slip into his hair, nails raking gently over his scalp, just the way he likes it, sending a shiver down his spine, a warmth welling in his heart at the knowledge that she knows how to please him. He feels her lips against the back of his neck, soft and warm, her other arm wrapping around his chest, hand squeezing his left peck, her breasts pressing against his shoulder blades. “Stay a little longer,” she repeats.

He sighs, closing his eyes, savouring the moment, the peace that blankets his heart suddenly as she continues to lavish him with love.

_Love?_ It shocks him – that he should attribute such an emotion to her actions when it's far more likely she's trying to calm and seduce him – but he doesn't panic or rise to leave, the thought of being loved by a woman, one as remarkable as Ruth, not nearly as alarming as it used to be. When had that changed? Why? What is she doing to him? 

He has no answer to these questions. In fact, as she works her way around his body and comes to straddle him, hands cupping his cheeks, eyes gazing into his with warmth, lips smiling softly, he can't exactly remember why he's been so adamant he must remain single.

“Would you like to be exclusive?” he asks without thinking, caught up in the moment.

She freezes, the smile slipping from her lips as her eyes gaze at him earnestly, darting from his left eye to his right, unsure, confused, wary. “How d'you mean?”

“Sex,” he replies. “Only with each other. I haven't had anyone else in two months. I have no particular need for multiple partners. These encounters we have are good. They're enough for me.”

She frowns. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“And if they turn out not to be?”

“I'll let you know and we can start taking precautions again.”

She drops her gaze, a breathless, incredulous laugh escaping her as she shakes her head at him. “You are one of the most confusing, exasperating men I've ever met, Harry.”

“Confusing how?”

“You're so honest about certain things, yet about others...” She sighs. “Hasn't it occurred to you, Harry, that if that were to happen, I might not want to continue? It's quite a blow to one's ego to hear one isn't enough for someone, you know.”

He stares at her, realising she's right. “I'm sorry. That was clumsy. I just wanted to reassure you that I wouldn't lie about it, Ruth, that I'd be responsible.”

“I see.” She looks at him in silence for a long time and he wonders what she's thinking. “Alright, Harry. I'll agree, but that doesn't mean I'm going to forgo dates with others. I'm still looking for something more than this, but I'll not sleep with anyone else without telling you.”

The twinge he feels at this declaration is eclipsed by the fact that he has Ruth all to himself now, and he can't help the triumphant smile from spreading across his lips, or the way he suddenly, desperately wants her.

“What about testing?” she asks before he can get too carried away.

“Testing?”

“STDs,” she clarifies.

“I had my physical last week in honour of my birthday and I always say yes to all the tests. Everything was clear, apart from the fact that I need to cut down on the whisky and get some exercise, apparently. They tell me that every year though, so what do they know? I'm still here and perfect capable of _exercising_ with you.” He grins at her wickedly.

She smiles and cups his cheeks again, her gaze fond and inviting. “Well, mine were clear in April and I've only had you since, so...” He sighs, the euphoria this statement produces in him overwhelming.

“I want you,” he says, pulling her buttocks towards him so she can feel his growing desire for her.

She hums, “Mmmm. Me too. But first, the birthday boy had a request.” And with that, she shoves him backwards and begins to trail kisses down his chest and stomach making him groan with want and painfully delicious expectation.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter is set on two different days during 2.09, one in the middle and one at the end of the episode. Many thanks again for reading and reviewing. Your encouraging words really make my day. S.C. x

_Thursday, 13 th November 2003 – Ruth's Place_

 

It's odd, but she's beginning to enjoy the time she spends wrapped in Harry's arms after sex almost as much as the act itself. There's something very comforting about it, something gentle and tender, a moment of stillness and peace snatched out of the chaos that often prevails in their lives, and though she's always thought that she'd need a gentle, kind man to make her feel this way, she's rather surprised to find that perhaps she doesn't. Perhaps a man who understands how precious this peace and contentment is, for whom it's equally rare and cherished, is actually in a better place to understand her and appreciate these moments with her, rather than one for whom they're par for the course and unremarkable because his life is always peaceful and tranquil.

Is this why spies often take up with each other? Is this what Tom sees in Christine Dale? She feels sorry for him, in a way, that he has to break it off, though equally, she understands why Harry's insisting. Still, perhaps he's not in love with her, perhaps he has a similar arrangement to the one she has with Harry. She hopes so. Poor Tom doesn't need to suffer through another tricky breakup.

She tilts her head up to look at Harry, causing him to hum, perhaps in protest. He's got his eyes closed and he's relaxed, more relaxed than she's ever seen him, except for that one time he'd stayed over, for his birthday, and she'd watched his face for long moments while he'd slept. She likes that he's getting to feel so comfortable around her, that his trust in her is growing and he doesn't feel he has to be quite so careful and always on his guard. And of course, she appreciates the sex without the condoms too. It's absolutely heavenly now that she can really feel him inside her, his movements more gentle, more in tune with hers, as if he can sense, can intuit what she needs and wants to give her the utmost pleasure.

She runs her fingers over the smooth skin of his jaw – he's always freshly shaven now when he comes over – cupping his cheek, making him hum again and turn his head towards her, his eyes opening to look down at her. “Alright?” he asks, his voice gravelly and lazy, gaze as warm as honey, brimming with a contented soft of satisfaction.

“Yes,” she whispers. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Tom,” she admits.

There's a pause, then he says, “He was out of line today,” causing her to frown up at him, wondering what specifically he's referring to.

“How'd you mean?”

“What he said to you.”

“Oh.” She'd almost forgotten about that. “Right. It's fine, Harry. I'm not upset about that. I'm just... He's been... erratic lately. Every op seems to aggravate him in one way or another, every outcome leaves him – I don't know – edgy, unhappy? He's volatile and unpredictable.”

“Yes,” he agrees quietly, looking away, lost in deep thought for a few moments.

“You're worried about him, aren't you?”

“Yes,” he confirms, turning his eyes back on hers.

“Maybe it'll blow over,” she says hopefully. “This thing with Christine Dale... Do you think it's serious?”

“I hope not,” he replies, his eyes slipping from her face again, a frown creasing his brow. “He should have known better than to start something with a foreign operative. He's all over the shop lately.” He sighs and lifts his left hand to tub his forehead with thumb and fingers – such a Harry thing to do that it makes her smile inwardly to see it.

“Maybe he's pumping her for information,” she suggests, delighted to see him smile and lower his hand to her hip.

“He was seeing someone before you joined us. Ellie Simm. She had a child – six, seven years old or so. There was a bomb in a laptop Patrick McCann, of IRA infamy, gave Tom. He took his work home – always a bad idea. Ellie and her daughter were there. Luckily the trigger was faulty and it didn't detonate, but it cost Tom the relationship. I think it hit him harder than he'd like to admit.” He says all this softly, his left hand stroking her arm, and though she already knew most of it from office gossip, she's pleased to hear him share it with her. “He's not been himself since.”

“It's hard to get over losing a family,” she says, moving closer to him and resting her head on his shoulder again.

“I hadn't considered them as his family, but... you're right,” he replies after a moment. “It's hard when children are involved.” His voice sounds distant as if he's somewhere far away, and she remembers suddenly that he'd been married, a while back now, and has two adult children. He never speaks of them, of course, and no one seems to know anything about them, and she wonders suddenly if perhaps he'd lost touch with them as a result of his divorce and how much this must have hurt him.

“You have children, don't you?” she asks lightly.

“Two,” he replies softly, almost reverently. “They're all grown up now.”

“It must have been hard, bringing them up, with all this danger and calamity around,” she ventures, feeling a sudden surge of compassion for him. “I don't know how people do it. I'm convinced I'd be an emotional wreck if I were a parent. Fretful and totally paranoid. An utter basket case really. Far better for everyone concerned – especially the children – that I stick to cats, I think.”

He chuckles softly, his gaze warm as he murmurs, “All I can say is that the cats, I'm sure, are grateful.”

“They'd better be. Do you have _any_ idea how much it costs to feed them and pay the vet?”

He laughs and rolls onto his side to face her, propping his head on his right hand. “I imagine I have a pretty good idea. I have a dog at home.”

“You do?”

“Hmmm,” he hums and leans in to kiss her.

“What's his – her? – name?”

“It's a secret,” he replies, making her smile so that his next attempt to kiss her fails. “Stop smiling, Ruth. I'm _trying_ to kiss you.”

“I can't,” she protests. “I find it funny when you do that.”

“Do what? Kiss you?”

“No, become all... spooky.”

“Spooky?” He lifts his head to frown down at her.

“Doing your spook thing. Becoming all cagey. Hiding ridiculous little details. It's funny.” She grins up at him, adoring the pout that's formed on his lips, the calculating look in his eyes as he narrows them at her.

“Spooky is my middle name,” he says, then leans over her, his lips close to her ear as he adds, “Now, shut up and let me fuck you.” And with that, she feels his lips and tongue find the spot that's always her undoing, sending shivers running through her and a bolt of desire straight to her core, making her whimper and close her eyes, all thought slipping away as she responds to him with equal ardour and passion.

She can't really fault him for being cautious – he's a spy and, if she's honest, she wouldn't have him any other way for, in keeping his innermost thoughts and feelings to himself, he gives her permission not to open up either. Love and intimacy and the perfect man are all very well, but in practice, she's beginning to wonder if she'll ever meet a man she could bring herself to trust enough to open up and make herself truly vulnerable.

 

 

_Sunday, 16 th November 2003 – The Grid_

 

He pours a glass of whisky while he listens to Tessa talk.

“Durbeyfield or D'urberville: only a slight difference,” she's saying. “Right and wrong – it's a fine line. You make your decisions and somehow the consequence of those decisions keep unravelling.”

_I'll say._

He takes another sip of his drink, but as he lowers his glass he feels a slight shift in the air around him. It's not hostile, but familiar and welcome like a caress from a gentle lover. In fact, he'd give just about anything right now to feel the touch of her hand against him, the exquisite softness of her kiss, for it is Ruth who has come to seek him out, he's sure of it – though he hasn't yet turned to look behind him – and he can already feel himself relaxing.

“Are you alright?” she asks softly as she stops behind his right shoulder to frown at the image of Tessa on the screen.

He sighs and purses his lips. He has no idea how to answer that. He could lie, but somehow he can't bring himself to do that right now.

“Is that Tessa?” she asks, surprising him and reminding him suddenly of how little she knows.

“Yes,” he replies, feeling every year of his age.

He lifts his eyes to find her silently studying her image and listening carefully to her words, until finally she makes a huffing noise and pulls out the chair beside him to sit, reaching for his glass of whisky, taking it from his hand, and taking a fortifying sip.

“What bollocks,” she says. “She's only making excuses.”

He smiles and picks up the remote, pausing the video. “Sometimes, saving face is all that's left for us to do,” he murmurs, revealing far more than he intended. This has been happening quite a lot around Ruth lately and, try as he might, he can't seem to stop himself from doing it.

There's a moment of silence before she presses his whisky glass back into his hand, using the opportunity to gently squeeze it with her other one, and he feels a lump of emotion lodge itself in his throat at her gentle compassion and support. He'd made the wrong decision today and that poor woman had lost her life for it.

She doesn't keep her hands round his long for, though they're alone at the moment, there's always CCTV to worry about. “You couldn't have known what would happen, Harry,” she says softly, her eyes full of compassion, her words comforting and soothing.

“I should have seen it coming,” he murmurs, lifting the glass to his lips again before bringing it back to the table, cradling it between his hands, tracing its patterns with his fingertips as he swallows the whisky. “I know Tessa. I should have expected her to pull something like this when cornered. Her self-interest knows no bounds.”

She's silent for a few moments, then says, “Well, at least, she's out of your hair now. She'll be someone else's problem for a while and, with any luck, she'll get herself in too deep, one of these days, and won't survive the experience.”

He's not sure he's ever heard Ruth speak so harshly about anyone, and he can't help but smile at the steel in her voice and clear blue eyes. “I'll drink to that,” he offers, taking another sip of his scotch.

She smiles and gets up, murmuring, “You know where I am if you need me, Harry,” and walking away, her hand resting for a moment on his shoulder before her fingertips graze the back of his neck and she's gone, leaving him to his dark thoughts and his whisky, and the growing realisation he can no longer ignore that he _does_ need her and that he might very well – and in spite of his own certainty that it would never happen – be falling in love with her.

In fact, might is probably an understatement, and the more he considers his feelings and probes his heart, the more it seems to him to be too late to halt the process – he's too far gone already to escape unscathed.

For a moment, he wonders when it had began, how it had escaped his notice. At what point could he have pulled back and walked away without consequence to himself? He remembers that first stirring of emotion when he'd left her sleeping that first time and the subsequent warmth he'd felt as he'd watched her laugh at her joke about his condoms. He'd known then, had felt that this woman was very different from the ones who'd come before her, and he can't help feeling that there's probably no way he could have escaped this fate, that just working with Ruth day in and day out – her wisdom, her winsomeness, her strength, her brilliance, her courage and tenacity, her gorgeous eyes and beautiful smile – would have slipped past all his defences eventually and the result would have been the same. By sleeping with Ruth, all he'd probably done is hasten the inevitable.

It's comforting somehow to think that, at any rate, and though he briefly contemplates the wisdom of distancing himself, he quickly dismisses the notion. Far better to take and enjoy every moment she will give him of her time and her body, for as long as she allows it to last. When you're offered a good whisky, you drink the whole bottle, you don't take a sip and give it back because it might spoil your appetite for all others.

No. He will continue to see her and have her and thrill her for as long as she'll let him because, in addition to draining the whisky bottle, you also do your best to get a steady supply of it, which would mean turning several of his own rules on their heads and doing his best to: a) keep Ruth interested and seduced, and b) make sure no one finds out about it.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello, everyone. A bit of an interlude between episodes today, seeing as I'm setting the next chapter and 2:10 a few months after Christmas. Thank you for continuing to read and leave kudos and comments on this story. You make my day. Cheers, S.C.

_Thursday, 25 th December 2003 – Saffron Walden, Essex_

 

“Call yourself a spy,” he complains. “You daft woman, how could you have forgotten your gloves in December?” They've stopped walking to look at the castle and, upon noticing her rubbing her hands together to warm them, he'd asked her where her gloves were, to which she'd replied that she'd left them at home.

“I remembered all the important stuff,” she protests, narrowing her eyes at him as he removes his own gloves and takes her hands in his.

“Such as?”

“Toothbrush, toothpaste, that sexy little number you enjoyed so much last night.”

He smiles. “Touché.”

He's pressed her hands together, sandwiching them between his own, toasty warm ones for a moment or two, his eyes full of an amused fondness.

It still amazes her a little that he'd come up with this plan to spend Christmas together, escape London and come here for two nights and a day of sex and food and a few strolls around the town, despite the chilly weather. It had been such a wonderful prospect not to spend Christmas alone with Fidget – since David and her mum had arranged to spend this Christmas at their holiday home in Spain – that she'd said yes without hesitation, and truthfully, she's glad that she did. It's been just as much fun as she'd hoped it would be so far, and she can't imagine any reason why it won't continue being fun for the next 24 hours too.

They'd arrived after lunch yesterday, had gone for a stroll through the town, had stopped to buy some supplies at Waitrose – apparently the only supermarket in the centre – and the local off-licence before the shops closed for Christmas, coming out well stocked with an assortment of chocolates, sparkling wine, whisky and other treats, and retired to their hotel room to unpack, consume some of their goodies, have sex, go downstairs for dinner, return to their room to have some more sex and whisky and chocolate and strawberries, all at the same time, and fall into a deep, satisfied slumber.

This morning, Harry had been just as amorous as the last time they'd actually slept in the same bed for his birthday, and she's beginning to wonder if perhaps she should arrange to spend all future holidays and celebrations with Harry, just for the thrill of being awakened like that in the morning.

“What?” he asks, spotting the upward tilt of the corners of her mouth.

“Nothing. Just thinking.”

“About?”

“How much I enjoyed this morning.” She smiles up at him, watching as his eyes begin to twinkle at her.

“There's plenty more where that came from, Ruth,” he offers.

“That's good. Can I have my hands back now?”

“Almost,” he says, using one hand to reach into his pocket to pull out his black, leather gloves and proceeding to slip them onto her hands.

She's not sure if she should be touched or exasperated by this, so she settles for a mixture of both. “Harry!” she protests. “It's sweet of you, but I'm fine. Really. I have pockets.”

“Which you clearly don't use,” he counters, his eyes still lowered as he works to push the gloves on. “Open up your fingers, would you? I can't get this on unless you cooperate.”

She huffs indignantly. “Who says I want to cooperate? I'm fine. You're fussing like an old woman,” she complains.

“Old _woman_?” he repeats, his eyes glinting dangerously as he pauses and looks up.

“Figure of speech,” she says quickly, waving in a dismissive gesture and causing his glove to drop to the ground. “Oops. Sorry.”

He growls, reaching down to pick it up and slapping it against his thigh to shake any dirt off it. “Would you just let me be a gentleman, Ruth, and wear my sodding gloves?!” he demands, sounding exasperated. “I'm _trying_ to do something nice here. Stop being such a stubborn...” He pauses.

“Minx?” she offers, smirking at him. It's so much fun to tease Harry that she has trouble resisting the temptation, especially on the Grid where she knows that she mustn't.

“Mule,” he counters. “ _Old_ mule.”

She laughs. “We're quite a pair then, aren't we? The old woman and the old mule.” The look on his face is priceless.

“When we get back to the hotel,” he warns, “you're going to pay for that, Ms Evershed.”

“I look forward to it,” she replies and turns.

“Oh no, you don't! You're putting on these gloves, or I swear, I'll...”

“What?” she challenges.

“I'll eat all the raspberries and the chocolate and drink all the-”

“Okay. Fine. Give them here.” She takes the gloves from his hand and slips them on. They're much too large for her of course, but they're warm and it's a nice gesture and it warms her heart that he's made it. “Thank you,” she says, lifting her eyes to his, all teasing gone from her gaze. In truth, it's been a very long time since anyone cared at all if her fingers were frozen, and even longer since someone's given up their gloves – or anything else for that matter – for her.

“My pleasure,” he replies, stepping closer, threading his fingers through her hair to push the strands that the wind's toying with out of her face. “I'm actually being very selfish,” he murmurs. “I know you'll need to warm those fingers up once we get back inside otherwise, and I have a feeling I'm the one you're going to be warming them up on.”

She smiles broadly at that. “I think you might be right. You'd certainly be my first choice.”

“And if, heaven forbid, you were to choose the wrong part of my anatomy to do so,” he murmurs with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “you might very well end up with an old woman.”

She snorts with laughter at that, his words so unexpected and funny that she can't help wrapping her arms around him and pressing her face into his coat, her fondness for him overflowing. “You're wonderful,” she mumbles into his chest, her heart flooding with affection and love.

“What?”

For a moment, she doesn't react, frozen in time and the realisation that her feelings for Harry have shifted substantially since the last time she took stock of them, when she'd decided that she can no longer think of him as merely a colleague, but as a friend as well.

 _Oh well done, Ruth! So much for guarding your heart, you ninny._ She's but a hair's breadth away from falling in love with him.

Slowly she pulls out of his arms to look at him, but his face betrays nothing but pleasure. “I didn't catch what you said,” he says.

“I said, this isn't much of a castle anyway,” she invents quickly, nodding over his shoulder at the heavily eroded walls behind him. He turns to look, giving her a much needed moment to compose herself and steady her heart.

She can't be falling in love with Harry. She just can't. Not when she's tried so _hard_ to remain detached and unaffected by him. Not when she's known from the start that this could never work out, that falling in love with him would mean a broken heart, that Harry could never give her all that she wants from a partner. He's charming to be sure and so sweet and considerate sometimes, but so are most men who want to get into one's knickers, so this should come as no surprise and it shouldn't mean anything. She's tried so hard not to be swayed by it and had been so convinced she could handle the challenge. How could she have been so wrong?

“It's very old,” he says, stepping away from her to look at the information plaque by the gate. “It says here it was built in the 12th century. To be honest, I'm impressed it's still standing at all.”

He's slipped his hands into his pockets and is pursing his lips pensively as he studies the castle, lost in thought, and as she watches him, she realises that he's become her dearest friend and that she couldn't bear to lose his friendship, his regard for her, his support. She can't end what they have even if it means more heartache later. Their limited, quasi relationship gives her more joy and hope than anything else in her life at the moment, including her job, and she can't bring herself to let it go. It's too late now to step away unscathed. She's just going to have to see it through to the end, whatever and whenever that end might be.

Besides, she can't discount the possibility that maybe, just maybe, if she's very lucky, they can go on like this forever. Maybe things will remain like this between them – fun and passionate and beautiful. Maybe neither of them will get tired of the other. He doesn't want more, and only seeing each other sparingly makes each encounter more passionate and she loves that. Maybe they can continue seeing each other every few weeks or so, taking a few weekends off together. And if one day she wants more... well, maybe she'll get it. Maybe he'll fall in love with her too, or maybe she'll meet someone else who will steal her heart away from Harry without the need for heartbreak. You never know your luck.

“Ready to head back then?” he asks, turning to face her once more.

She blinks at him.

“Yes. I've got a solution. Here.” She pulls off the right glove and holds it out to him. “You put on the right glove, I'll stick with the left, and we'll hold hands in the middle.”

He smiles. “Brilliant as always, Ruth.”

He pulls on the glove and holds out his hand for her to take, and they walk back hand in hand to their hotel room.

 

 

_Friday, 26 th December 2003 – Ruth's Place_

 

“Cup of tea?” she offers once he's pulled up in front of her home.

“That would be lovely,” he replies, pleased not to have to part with her just yet.

They get out and he lifts her overnight bag from the boot, but she doesn't let him carry it, daft, independent woman that she is, he thinks fondly as he locks the car and follows her to her door. They're back in London now and tomorrow they'll be back at work, and he knows he must refrain from any overtures towards her – anyone could be watching.

Once inside her home, however, after they've discarded their coats and she's fussed over her cat while he's put the kettle on, he doesn't hesitate to draw closer, loosely wrapping his arms around her as he leans in for a gentle kiss.

The cat in Ruth's arms just starts purring louder.

“Would you look at that,” she says. “He doesn't seem to mind having you around any more, Harry.”

“Maybe that's because you don't seem to mind me being around either, Ruth,” he observes.

She smiles. “That's true. I've grown rather fond of you.”

He grins, suddenly feeling euphoric. “Me too. Friends with benefits?” he suggests with a wink.

She laughs. “Yes, though friends actually _know_ certain things about each other, Harry. For instance, their pets' names.” She gives him a pointed look.

He chuckles happily and releases her to make the tea. “Scarlet. Her name is Scarlet. She's a Jack Russell. She's four years old now.”

“Did you get her as a puppy?”

“No. I got her from an animal shelter. She was fifteen months. Her former owners enjoyed having a puppy around, but I guess, they hadn't realised the commitment involved long-term.”

“Poor Scarlet,” she says, burying her face in her cat's fur.

He smiles to see her lavish such love on her cat. “At least she wasn't mistreated and they did make the effort to train her a little. She's very bright. She knows all sorts of tricks now.”

“And do I get to meet her one day and see all the tricks her master loves to brag about?”

He's stirring in their sugar with his back to her, but he can't help hesitating for a moment. If he lets Ruth into his home, he'll be breaking all the rules that have kept him safe and detached yet, also, very much alone all these years. He'll be opening himself up to the worst kind of pain again, yet he can't help but acknowledge, perhaps the best kind of happiness too. Not only has he come to love Ruth, but to trust her too, and that is something he never thought would happen to him again. He has this feeling that he could tell her anything and she'd still not betray him, which is ridiculous really. There's no way her loyalty goes that deep, there's no way she would protect him, even under duress, or sacrifice herself to keep him safe, is there? She might be fond of him and enjoy spending time with him – and shagging his brains out, but that's beside the point – yet there are limits to friendship, he knows, and to most people's loyalty, limits that he cannot afford to test. Perhaps he can meet her in a park with Scarlet. Perhaps he can take her to his shag pad instead and bring Scarlet along there too. Perhaps she'll forget about Scarlet once the moment passes anyway, and he'll have no more reason to worry about it.

“I'm sure that can be arranged,” he murmurs and picks up their tea, carrying it over to the table.

Her cat, he notes, is eating his dinner, no longer paying either of them attention now that he's got what he was looking for. He's never understood the point of having a cat. Seems like a lot of work for very little reward to him, but Ruth clearly loves it, so who is he to judge? He supposes it's less work than a dog, at any rate. You don't need to walk a cat and he has moments when walking Scarlet feels like a chore and he'd love to be able to skip it.

“Thank you,” she says, taking her tea and sitting down beside him, only to jump up again. “Biscuits,” she explains and goes off to get them. “Chocolate Rich Tea.” She puts the packet down in front of him and sits beside him. “I know you love them.”

He groans. “I think I've had enough food and chocolate and sugar in the last two days to last me the rest of the year.”

“All five days of it?” she teases, making him chuckle.

She opens the packet and offers it out to him, so he takes one. “If you're not careful, Ruth,” he grumbles around a mouthful of biscuit, “I'll be fat soon.”

“You _will_ be?” she teases.

“Watch it,” he growls, but she only laughs.

“What are friends for?” she grins. “Besides, I love that you're a man of good appetites, Harry, and I love your love handles.”

She loves them, but does she love _him_? And what would he do about it if she did? Is he ready to offer her more than what they have at the moment? To bring her into his home and his life wholeheartedly? And what would that mean for their work together? What would it mean for her? What if she were targeted to get to him, like Johnny Marks did with Roger Welk's daughter? Would she accept extra security? Would she accept people knowing about them?

Too many questions without satisfactory answers yet, so he must wait and see.

“Speaking of good appetites,” he murmurs, swallowing the last of his biscuit and washing it down with a mouthful of tea. “Kiss me, Ruth.”

“Bossy, aren't you?”

He lifts one eyebrow. “Yes,” he concedes. “Now kiss me. I have to go soon and I don't know when I'll get the next opportunity. We have to work for New Year's. I need a kiss to keep me going until then.”

“In that case, I can do better than a kiss,” she says and gets up, lifting up her skirt and pulling down her knickers before she straddles his legs, smiling, her hands threading through his hair as she leans in to kiss him, and he can't help the groan that escapes his lips at the feel of her heat settling over his groin, her nails scraping his scalp, the passion of her kiss, his all consuming need to have her. But she is in control this time, of the rhythm and the pace, and all he can do is relax and enjoy and let her have her way with him.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay, so after watching 2:10 and 3:01, I realised that Tom couldn't possibly have gone for a swim in winter and survived, so I've set this chapter sometime in the spring. Hope the timeline still makes sense. Thanks for all your kind words of encouragement. I'm glad so many of you are enjoying this fic. Cheers, S.C.

_Thursday, 1 st April 2004 – London_

 

“I suppose it's possible she didn't know what Tom was planning,” Ruth says. He gives her a sceptical look. “I mean, he might have feared she'd not support the idea. Perhaps he was planning to secure the money, then convince her to leave with him without ever having to disclose where it came from.”

“Perhaps,” he agrees, without much conviction. He rather thinks Christine Dale's the reason and the mastermind behind all this.

“You believe she's lying?” Ruth presses, hastening to keep up with his larger strides.

“Right now, Ruth, I don't know _what_ to believe.”

They hurry down the steps and into the waiting car, where they sit side by side, each lost in thought.

“Do you think Tom would throw it all away like that though? For love?” she asks after a few moments of silence, sounding sceptical.

“I've seen it happen before,” is all he offers.

“Really? Who?”

“Doesn't matter.”

“But this is _Tom_ , Harry!” she protests. “I just can't believe it of him any more than I would believe it of you. _You_ wouldn't do something like this just to run away with someone. The Tom we know wouldn't either. There must be another explanation.”

“Like what, Ruth?” he questions, turning to look at her. “We need to accept the facts before our eyes without judgement. We can't be second guessing ourselves at every turn. He'll use that, he'll use our doubts and loyalty against us.”

“I know,” she sighs.

They're silent after that for a few moments until she murmurs softly, “He gave me a second chance once. I'd just like to return the favour.”

He wants to reach for her hand and give it a reassuring squeeze, to show her that he understands, but he can't. As wonderful as their continued friends with benefits scheme is working for them, he knows that they cannot afford to go public with it. Others knowing will ruin everything and he's not ready to lose her.

“It's an admirable sentiment, but misplaced until we understand more. We need to find him and bring him in. Then we'll see if it's merited, yes?”

“Yes.” She nods and turns to look out the window. She's remarkable – she really is – being able to set aside her emotions like this. Zoe and Danny hadn't been so easily convinced to let go of their loyalty and look at the facts before them, and they've both been with MI-5 and his Section in particular for much longer than Ruth has. It's invaluable – what she brings to the team and to him personally, of course – and he's not at all sure what he'd do without her. He hopes to never have to find out.

Seven months they've been seeing each other now, though they haven't acknowledged to each other that this is more than two friends enjoying sex together. He can't believe that she doesn't feel something for him too after so long together though. He can't believe that she doesn't suspect that he's fallen in love with her. Their encounters are more tender, more fun and loving now than they were at the beginning, and though still passionate and electric, there is a depth, a real connection when they come together, a feeling of intimacy, of trust and love. He can't be imagining that, can't be the only one who experiences it as he moves inside her. Yet still he hesitates and holds back from bringing it up in conversation, is still unsure about taking it to the next level. Acknowledging what they share, he fears, will destroy it, reaching for more would be tempting fate, and losing her now would hurt too much, might very well bring him to his knees or destroy him.

He yanks his thoughts back to the present and the situation with Tom, wondering what his next move might be. None of it makes much sense to him. His actions speak of a man who's become unhinged and he wonders if Tom's really losing the plot or if it's just a very elaborate double, triple bluff he's trying to pull. If _he'd_ been planning to assassinate a high profile target and skip the country with his lover, he'd not have orchestrated it in this way at all. Then again, Tom's been acting odd for a while now. Maybe he _has_ become somewhat unhinged, in addition to the clear disillusionment he feels for the job and the Service. He sighs, rubbing his temples with thumb and fingers.

“We'll find him,” she says softly and, when he turns to look, he finds her watching him, her gaze warm and tender.

He desperately wants to kiss her, gather her in his arms, draw comfort and strength from her, lose himself in their passion and lust. They haven't talked much about their pasts, haven't shared that much information with each other, both of them content with just a few snippets here and there, and yet, somehow, he feels closer to her than anyone else, feels like he knows her in and out, intimately, like she understands, appreciates, and loves him. Does she really, or is that just wishful thinking on his part?

Perhaps he's still just a place holder in her bed, perhaps she's still waiting for another man to come along and sweep her off her feet, perhaps she still believes that he's not looking for love or commitment, that he will never want more, could never love her, and that what they have must end, sooner or later. Perhaps – though she feels his love – she daren't allow herself to trust it, to believe that he could fall for her when his behaviour and everything he'd said to her at the beginning had made it crystal clear that he doesn't want commitment or love, that it was all just lust and sex and physical pleasure. Perhaps she could love him fully if he just admitted his own feelings, gave her reason to hope that there could be more between them, but the truth is that he will simply never be sure either way unless he asks her, will never know for certain how she feels until he plucks up the courage to offer her more.

 

* * *

 

Somehow she'd known something bad would happen, had watched him leave the Grid with a growing sense of unease, had feared, deep down, that she might never see him again, and in that moment, she'd realised just how very much he has come to mean to her, that for better or worse, she's well and truly in love with him now.

He's alive, she tells herself, that's what's important, and he wouldn't want her to fall to pieces like this. She needs to stop crying and get a grip, help Danny and Zoe and Malcolm and the rest to solve this, deal with the aftermath, hold the fort until Harry's recovered. Losing both Tom and Harry – their two leaders – in one fell swoop, is not at all good for the Section.

_Tom, oh Tom. How could you do this?!_

There is truly no limit to the insanity, the unpredictability of human behaviour.

She manages to get her emotions under control again and work together with Sam and Malcolm to manage the situation from the Grid until Danny and Zoe can get back, taking on more of a leadership role than ever before because there's simply no one else willing to do it. They all seem to be looking to her for guidance and she finds herself surprisingly able to take that on and rise to the occasion. But then Special Branch descends on them and attempts to take over, and she knows she cannot fight them alone. So she makes the call to Zoe and Danny, urging them to come in quickly, but when Oliver Mace makes his appearance, she realises all is lost.

_Tell Harry._

That's what Zoe had said, and she knows that it's what she must do, part of her fearing what she'll find when she gets to the hospital, the rest of her thrilled to be given an opportunity to see him and make sure that he's really alright. All Danny had said is that he was shot in the left shoulder, but that it looked like he would pull through.

He looks so vulnerable, lying in a hospital bed, wearing a hospital gown, what she can see of his face looking drawn and in pain. _Poor love._ She wants to set everything else aside and just take care of him, but she knows that they have bigger problems to solve than Harry's wounds and obvious discomfort and Harry would be the first to tell her that.

She tries the door only to find it locked and to have a goon from Special Branch deny her entrance. _The cheek!_ They wouldn't be able to turn her away if Harry was her partner, if they had moved as far as listing each other as their next of kin, she finds herself fuming as she walks away, and that's where the idea comes from to bribe and sway the nurse with a soppy love story.

It's true enough, the part about being in love with him, but it's not enough to sway the nurse until she closes the deal with a lie about having his child, in addition to the fifty pound note she hands over to get her message to Harry – “JIC closing Grid”. In reality, she's pretty confident it wouldn't happen. She's been extra careful _not_ to fall pregnant over the past few months, knowing that that's the last thing either of them need, given the nature of their work and their unusual relationship. Besides, children are not something she sees in her future – they never have been – and certainly not in her future with Harry. The responsibility, the reality of a child would destroy them, she's sure – rather than bringing them closer together – plus, she believes with all her heart that children should be wanted and loved before they're brought into this world, that none of them should be a mere accident. No, if something like that were to happen, she'd probably just take care of it and not even bother telling him about it. What would be the point if she wasn't going to keep it anyway?

A serious relationship though, she finds herself wondering as she moves through London trying to shake her tail, is that something she wants with Harry? Is that where this is going in her mind? Up until now, she's avoided thinking about it, has simply drifted along aimlessly, content with what they share, however frequently they share it, deliberately avoiding probing her heart and mind too deeply, convinced that more is not possible anyway, so why worry about it? But since Danny had told her that Harry had been shot, her emotions, her thoughts have been all over the place and she can't seem to stop herself from reassessing everything – what they have, what she wants, where they're going with this.

What they have is precious to her, yet it's not at all like what she's pictured her future to be over the years. She's been picturing someone from outside the Service, someone who can infuse her life with a good dose of normality and stability and grounding, a link to the outside world, a counterpoint to the stress and paranoia of spying. Harry cannot give her any of these things, but he _can_ give her understanding, support, guidance, loyalty, passion, and perhaps even love. The reason they'd first come together had been EERIE, the same reason, she suspects, Tom's relationship with Dr Totally-Bananas had finally fallen apart. Harry had understood her, in that moment, in a way that an outsider never could.

Could a relationship with someone outside the service even work long term? Zoe doesn't believe so. Neither does Sam. And the more she thinks about it, the more she finds herself agreeing with them. If she wasn't a spook, would she understand Harry? Would she put up with and forgive the secrecy, the uncertainty of plans made, the last minute cancellations, the long, unpredictable working hours, his shifting moods and his drinking? She rather thinks not. In fact, if she didn't know what he deals with everyday and how brilliantly he handles it, she would not respect him as she does, would not value him and admire him, and ultimately, would not have fallen in love with him in the first place.

And so it is that the sight of him walking onto the Grid fills her heart with joy and with love and with a desperate desire to run to him, kiss his soft lips, take his hand in hers and lead him home, where he can rest and she can take good care of him. But of course, she can do none of these things, and try as she might, she can't seem to shake her resentment and frustration over it. At least she can comfort herself with the knowledge that she was the first person his eyes sought out when he stepped through the pods, looking pained and exhausted, yet determined and, after he'd caught her eye, calmer and more focused too. Perhaps, like her, he's hoping to fix this quickly so he can go home with her and let her take care of him while he rests and recovers.

She manages to stay away from him until Adam asks him, “What about you, Harry? Would you have shot you if you were in Tom's position?”

She can tell Adam's teasing and clearly he knows Harry well enough to get away with it, especially when he's feeling so rotten, but it pierces her heart to see the dejection and exhaustion clearly writ on Harry's face, and the moment Adam tells them to take a break, she's out of the room like a shot, quickly making her way to the kitchen where she boils water for tea and pours it into a mug, intent on carrying it through to Harry's office.

“I'll just take this to Harry,” she tells those who've followed her into the kitchen.

“Here,” Danny says, sliding a BLT sandwich packet over to her. “Give him this too, would you, and tell him it's from me?”

She smiles. “If you're trying to make amends, Danny, I imagine some chocolate would work best.”

“Good point,” he replies and dashes out of the room. “I've got a Lion bar and a Yorkie,” he says somewhat breathlessly when he reappears, just as she's stepping out of the kitchen.

She gives him a sceptical look. “No chocolate biscuits?”

“These are all I've got.”

“Well... they might work.”

“Which one?”

“How should I know? He might not want either. He's clearly not feeling well.”

Danny takes a moment to stare at each of the bars in his hands, his lips twisting with indecision, obviously reluctant to part with either.

“Don't worry about it, Danny. I'll give him the sandwich. I'm sure it's better for him anyway not to be having chocolate when he's not feeling good.”

“Right. Yes,” he agrees, looking relieved, then smiling brightly at her. “Thanks, Ruth.” And with that, he rips open the Yorkie bar and wanders back into the kitchen, leaving her free to check on Harry.

He's sitting at his desk, leaning back in his chair, his head tilted back, eyes closed, his right arm cradling his left, forehead slightly damp with perspiration.

“Sweet tea,” she murmurs, setting the mug in front of him, her eyes taking him in, her heart going out to him. “And Danny sent this sandwich for you. It's a BLT.”

He smiles softly and opens his eyes, turning his head to look at her. “Thank you, Ruth.”

“You don't look good, Harry,” she says with concern, stepping closer and lifting her hand to his forehead. “You're burning up. You should be in bed.”

He's closed his eyes again at her touch, a small hum of pleasure escaping his throat at the cool feel of her hand on his hot skin. “Good to know you still find me irresistible,” he murmurs, “and can't wait to get me into bed.”

She smiles, pleased that he's feeling well enough to joke and rather glad she thought to close the office door behind her. She wants to admonish him for saying such a thing at work, but she can't quite bring herself to do it when he's in this state. “At least lie down on the sofa,” she suggests.

“If I lie down now, I fear I won't be able to get up again.”

“I'd offer to help you up, but I don't think I'd be able to lift you.”

He smiles and opens his eyes to look at her. “Are you saying I'm fat, Ruth?”

“Not so much,” she reassures him, her heart expanding with relief to be having a conversation with him again. “I'm saying you're very large.” He lifts his eyebrows and smirks, and she can't help being thrilled to see it. “Oh shut up,” she complains, her lips twitching as she suppresses a smile.

“I didn't say a thing,” he protests.

“You were thinking it very loudly.”

He chuckles, then closes his eyes with a groan. “Must remember not to laugh.”

“Oh Harry,” she breathes, feeling tears spring to her eyes.

“I'm alright,” he reassures her quickly.

“You're not alright, Harry. You're in pain, you've been shot, you're burning up, and you should be in bed, resting.”

“Probably,” he concedes, “but unfortunately, I'm stuck here and just have to make the best of it.”

“So lie down then,” she presses. “Adam looks strong enough to get you up again, if need be, and it'll do you good to rest, maybe have a bit of a kip. Did they give you any painkillers? Something that'll help lower your temperature?”

“In my coat pocket,” he instructs, so she goes over to get it, quickly reading the label while he takes a few sips of his tea, then eases himself out of his chair and walks over to the most uncomfortable sofa in the world that some sadist dumped in his office.

“Have you had any since they discharged you?”

“No.”

“Looks like you can have a couple now then,” she says, unscrewing the childproof lid and removing two tablets that she hands him. “Do you need water?”

“No, I can manage without. Could you bring me my tea though?”

“Of course,” she says, putting the bottle on his desk and retrieving his mug. “Did you want the sandwich too?”

“I'm not hungry,” he replies, so she just carries the tea over to where he's now lying down on the sofa. She sets it down beside him, then turns to draw the blinds, to give him a little privacy and block out the lights from the rest of the grid that are shining on his face, before going back over to get his coat to cover him. “Don't the braces bother you, Harry?” she asks, frowning down at him. “They're right over your shoulder.”

“Strangely, no,” he murmurs, his gaze soft and open. “Why? Are you looking for excuses to undress me?”

“I'd slap you, but I might hit the wrong shoulder.” She frowns at him, crouching down beside him and pulling his coat over him, tucking it under his chin. “You scared the hell out of me, Harry Pearce,” she whispers softly. “Don't ever do that again.”

“I won't,” he promises, equally softly, his gaze warm and tender.

She wants to say more, so much more, but this is not the right place for such confessions. Already she's lingered close to him too long and the others might have noticed. At least they can't be seen through the windows of his office any more.

“Rest,” she says softly, and impulsively leans in to brush a soft kiss against his forehead before she stands.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his eyes closed, his lips smiling softly.

And that's how she leaves him, switching off the light as she slips out of his office and pulling the door closed behind her.

“How's he doing?” Adam asks, almost making her jump.

“Not good,” she replies, keeping her expression neutral. “He's got a temperature and he's in pain. He should be in hospital. I've managed to convince him to lie down for a bit. Hopefully some sleep will do him good. I'll have the duty doctor pay him a visit later.”

Adam smiles. “I'm impressed, Ruth. There's not many people could convince him to do that.”

“Yes, well, around here, I'm the only one old enough to play mother and get away with it,” she replies, lifting her eyes in a long suffering way and making Adam chuckle. Then she turns away and goes back to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea, thinking that, unless Adam overheard any of their conversation, she's managed to pull that off quite nicely, though she doubts she'll be so lucky a second time. She must stay away from Harry unless she wants everyone to know what's going on between them, and given that Oliver Mace is looking for excuses to dismantle the section and knowing his reputation, this would be a particularly stupid time to be found out for both of them.

 


	11. Chapter 11

_Friday, 2 nd April 2018 – Harry's Place_

 

“Let me get that for you,” she says, startling him.

“Christ, Ruth!”

“Sorry. I thought you'd clocked me when you got out the car,” she explains, taking his house keys from his unresisting fingers and unlocking the front door for him.

“No,” he murmurs, feeling suddenly worried. He's so exhausted now that his spying skills are clearly suffering for it. Perhaps refusing his driver's help had not been the best plan, though since Ruth's here, it's probably just as well.

“Good job I was here to make sure the coast was clear then, isn't it?” She smiles, easing the door open for him and following him into the house.

He walks over to his alarm and punches in the numbers before starting to struggle with his coat while Ruth closes and locks the door behind them before hanging up her own coat and handbag.

“Here,” she says, moving closer. “Let me help.” And she quickly unfastens the buttons and pulls it off his shoulders, hanging it up and turning back to him just in time to steady him as he sways on his feet. “Jesus, Harry. You okay?”

“A little dizzy,” he replies, his self-control finally failing him. He's been holding himself together through sheer power of will, but he can no longer hide how exhausted he is and how desperately he needs to lie down and sleep.

“Come on,” she says firmly, slipping around him to his right side and draping his right arm over her shoulders. “Let's get you to the sofa, shall we? I don't think we can manage the stairs, unless you have a bed on the ground floor?”

“No,” he replies, recollecting suddenly that this is the first time Ruth's ever been in his home. He stares down at her in disbelief, overcome by emotion.

“What?”

“You've never been here before,” he murmurs.

“No, so you might want to tell me which door we're aiming for,” she suggests as practical as ever.

“First on the right,” he replies, allowing her to guide him to it.

She switches on the light and they make their way towards the sofa, but he redirects her to his armchair instead. “Reclining,” is all the explanation he gives, too exhausted to form many words.

She doesn't argue, just helps him sit, saying, “Easy does it, Harry. Try not to strain your shoulder.”

Somehow or other they succeed with minimal discomfort and he leans back with a sigh of relief, closing his eyes.

He feels her cool hand on his forehead and hears her say, “No temperature. That's good. I'll make us a cup tea, shall I?”

He hums, slowly drifting into sleep, barely managing to utter one word, “Scarlet,” before he loses consciousness, happy in the knowledge that Ruth's here and she will take care of everything. Never before has he felt so good about having another person around, in his home, in his space, watching over him.

 

* * *

 

“Poor love,” she murmurs softly. “Sleep. I'll take care of everything.” She lifts the lever on the side of the armchair and pushes the back down until it's as horizontal as possible, then removes his shoes and unfastens the button of his trousers and the front of his braces to make him more comfortable, before going in search of some covers for him.

She makes her way upstairs, discovering his office, a guest room, loo – which she uses quickly – his bedroom, and beyond it, an en suite. It's all so Spartan, she can't help thinking, as she crosses his bedroom and pulls the duvet off the bed, pausing by his chest of drawers, impulsively pulling open a few of them, looking for some warm, woollen socks she can put on his feet to help him sleep better. Then armed with these things, she goes back downstairs, replacing the socks on his feet and covering him well with the duvet before pressing a soft kiss against his forehead and going in search of the kitchen. He might be out like a light, but she's hungry, and she suspects, so is Scarlet.

She hears her growl the moment she approaches the room, and had she not met her before this, she'd probably have felt rather apprehensive about venturing any further. Knowing how friendly a dog she is, however, she has no qualms about opening the door and letting her out of the kitchen.

She barks once in greeting before rushing to the front room, clearly looking for Harry. She smiles after her, such a smart, devoted creature, and turns towards the kitchen, again surprised by how organised and soulless it seems. There aren't many things in Harry's home that would betray the tastes of its owner, and she wonders at that as she goes about opening cupboards and the fridge in search of food, both for herself and Scarlet. He clearly doesn't spend much time here, but she suspects that he's also trained himself not to become attached to things, to only have those which are functional and essential. Nothing is superfluous as far as she can see. No magnets on the fridge, nothing that betrays his character. She's sure that, if she looks closely, she'll find something, perhaps an old photo album, a few pictures of his children, a CD collection and some books that tell the story of who Harry Pearce is, of what are his tastes, what gives him pleasure, but she doesn't want to snoop. He didn't invite her here and it doesn't feel right to take advantage.

So she makes herself a cup of tea and some cheese on toast, feeds Scarlet and lets her out into the back garden briefly before making sure the house is locked up and going back upstairs to retrieve a pillow and duvet from the guest room and a shirt of Harry's to sleep in. She takes everything back down to the living room, ready to camp out on the sofa while Harry still sleeps in the armchair, Scarlet having jumped up on his lap, worming her way under the covers until only her little face is visible, resting on the arm of the chair next to Harry's hand, watching her.

She's so adorable that she can't help it, running back upstairs to retrieve Harry's camera that she'd seen lying on a shelf in his office, wanting to capture such a sweet scene for him to see later. Then she sets aside the camera and switches off the light before bedding down on the sofa for the night, feeling content to be near him in case he needs her, the shirt she's borrowed smelling deliciously of him and blanketing her heart with peace.

 


	12. Chapter 12

_Saturday, 3 rd April 2004 – Harry's Place_

 

It's his groan of pain that wakes her, but it's still dark, so she can't see him clearly, just the outline of the armchair in the gloom. “Harry?” she murmurs softly, sitting up.

“Ruth?” He sounds surprised.

“I'm here. Are you alright? Can I get you anything?”

She hears him shift, then murmur in surprise, “Scarlet?”

“Woof,” says Scarlet before she starts licking him – at least that's what it sounds like.

Ruth smiles into the dark. “She climbed onto your chair last night and cuddled up beside you. I got a lovely photo.”

He doesn't reply to that, but she hears him murmur something to his dog affectionately and she's sure she can see Scarlet's tail wagging. “Come on. Let me up, you silly pup,” he complains after a moment.

Scarlet whines in response, resisting his efforts to push her away.

“Shall I get the light?” she suggests, beginning to stand.

“That might help. Thanks. I need the loo,” he replies.

Gingerly, she makes her way across the room, following the path she remembers from last night, skirting around the spot she thinks is occupied by the coffee table and walking past his armchair until she's reached the wall, running her hand along it, looking for the light-switch.

“Aha!” she says in triumph when she locates it. “Watch your eyes,” she warns, scrunching up her own before flicking the light on.

Once her eyes have adjusted to the brightness, she sees that Scarlet's now on the floor before Harry, who is struggling to extricate himself from the duvet, so she crosses the room to help him, pulling it aside so he can get up, and helping him push down the recliner so he doesn't strain his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, refastening trousers and shifting forward in his seat, preparing to stand.

He almost loses his balance, but luckily she's there to catch him, steadying him with her arms round his waist as he grasps her left shoulder.

“Careful!”

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Still a bit light-headed.”

“I don't know what you thought you were going to do last night all on your own here,” she admonishes him lightly. “Come on. I'm coming with you.”

He looks like he might argue, but he seems to think better of it and allows her to escort him out of the room without complaint, her left arm wrapped around his waist again, his right arm round her shoulders. She's just thinking how snugly she fits beside him, when he voices that very thought. “You fit very nicely there, Ruth,” he murmurs softly, and when she looks up at him, she can't help but smile at the tenderness in his eyes.

“I do, don't I?” she replies happily. “Now are we going to attempt the stairs? Your clothes are up there and your bed's much more comfortable than the armchair or the sofa.”

“Tried it out, have you?”

“Actually, no. I just assumed it would be. You don't look like a man who enjoys torturing himself by sleeping on a bed of nails.”

He smiles. “Yes. To attempting the stairs, I mean. I think I can manage.”

And that's how they end up climbing them and making their way through to Harry's en suite.

“I can manage from here, thanks,” he says once they reach the doorway.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I'm not about to suffer the indignity of having you help me use the toilet, Ruth.”

“Very well,” she concedes, “but don't lock the door, and if you're about to fall over, yell and I'll come catch you. I've seen it all before, remember?”

He sighs. “I know, but that was under much more pleasant and dignified circumstances.”

“Yes, well, if you go gallivanting around, taking bullets to the shoulder, you're going to have to be prepared to swallow your pride sometimes and let me help you. The last thing we want is to extend your convalescence unnecessarily by doing something stupid, like falling over because you're too stubborn to let me help.”

“Stubborn, am I? I'd like to see what you would do in my position.”

“I wouldn't have got myself shot in the first place.”

He sighs, deflating a little. “I didn't think he'd do it,” he admits.

“You'd cornered him,” she says. “I'm sure he didn't want to hurt you, Harry. He just couldn't see another way out of his predicament. If it was me, I'd have listened and talked him down.”

He studies her for a moment and she hopes he can see her concern for him in her eyes, realising that her words just now sounded rather critical. “Perhaps I should have taken you with me.”

She smiles. “Perhaps. There's no use crying over spilt milk, however. Right now, you need rest.”

“And I desperately need to empty my bladder,” he concedes, turning from her towards the loo as she reaches in to pull the door closed, taking a moment to satisfy herself that he's steady enough on his feet to manage without her before closing it behind him.

 

* * *

 

They're in his bed, the two of them, with the bedside lamp on, both wide awake, her hair falling over her shoulder as she lies beside him, propping herself up on her left elbow while she smiles down at him, gazing into his eyes, and he can't help but feel moved by the experience of having her here, in his home, in his bed, wearing one of his shirts, her bare legs brushing against his own under the covers, happy and beautiful.

“You know, you're the only woman I've ever brought here,” he confesses softly, feeling brave enough to test the waters after the way she's taken care of him, convinced that perhaps she too feels and wants more.

Because _he_ does – he wants more, more of her, more of them, more than just sex every few weeks, more of a meshing of their lives even if it makes everything more complicated and unpredictable for him. He can't sit on the sidelines any longer. He has to take the risk, enter the game and, hopefully, win it because he wants her, he wants _everything_ with her.

“Here?”

“Home.”

She drops her gaze, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “I don't know about that, Harry. You didn't exactly bringing me here. I sort of barged in.”

“But I wanted to. I've wanted to bring you here since my birthday in November.”

She looks surprised by that, pleased, but also a little puzzled. “Then why didn't you?” she asks.

And how exactly does he answer that? How does he explain when she's invited him, welcomed him into her home and her bed so many times?

“I'm not sure how to explain,” he murmurs. “This is... it's my sanctuary. It's the place where I get to relax and be myself. I'm not a spy here. I'm not a Section Head. I'm not even a man. I'm just _me,_ if that makes any sense – plain, old Harry.”

She smiles and nods in understanding. “And you don't share plain, old Harry with many people, do you?”

“No,” he admits. “Mostly, it's just Scarlet.”

“I'm touched,” she says, lifting her right hand to stroke his cheek. She smiles.

“What?”

“Stubble,” she replies, running her fingers over his rough skin again. “You're normally freshly shaven when I touch you.”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, but she doesn't give him a chance to add anything more.

“Don't be. It's normal for the middle of the night. I rather like it.”

“Oh?” he replies, feeling pleased. “Would you like me to grow a beard?”

It had been a teasing remark, but she gives it serious consideration before she replies, “No, I don't think so. You've got a good, strong jaw. You don't need a beard. And I suspect it would hide your lips, which happen to be one of your best features. So no, on balance, I don't think a beard's a good idea.” She gives him a mischievous look. “And besides, it would tickle and scrape when you kissed me. I wouldn't like that.”

He smiles, marvelling at her beautiful mind, the amount of thought she puts into everything.

“Isn't it a bit lonely for you though?” she asks after a beat, lowering her hand lightly to his chest, and it takes him a moment to catch up with the conversation shift.

“I'm used to the solitude. I like my own company. I have Scarlet. I haven't felt lonely.” It's true – he doesn't – but at the same time, ever since his feelings for Ruth had blossomed into love, he's come to realise that he might be missing out on an awful lot of joy and happiness by not allowing her more fully into his life, into every one of the compartments he's spent so long constructing and keeping separate from each other – home, work, sex, intellectual stimulation, R&R, family.

“Well, I'm honoured that you trust me enough to want to bring me here.” She smiles and reaches down to kiss his lips softly before pulling back. “Thank you.”

He swallows and, whether because of the intimacy of the moment, the feelings of peace and joy that having her here have stirred in him, the pain or the painkillers dulling his mind or removing his inhibitions, or the way he's been forced to confront his own mortality, he can't help confessing, “It's not just trust.”

“Oh?” She's still smiling, her eyes incredibly blue and beautiful.

He licks his lips. “At first it was an attraction, a purely physical thing.”

“Then we became friends,” she says. “I remember.”

“But now...” He swallows, searching her gaze. “Now, Ruth, I find that, quite unexpectedly, I've fallen in love with you.”

Her breath hitches at his declaration, the smile slipping from her lips, her gaze full of surprise, disbelief even. They stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, his heart pounding, palms beginning to sweat, breath laboured as he waits for her reaction, scared he's misread the situation, her feelings, his gut tightening with apprehension to have left himself so open, so vulnerable.

“You said you could never fall in love with me,” she whispers, her eyes searching his, and he's not sure if she's stalling because she's scared to hope, to trust, or because she's searching for a way to let him down gently.

He clears his throat. “Actually, I didn't. What I said was I'm not _about_ to fall in love with you,” he replies, his voice rather gravelly. “I was right. It took several weeks for it to happen.”

She blushes and drops her gaze, which doesn't ease his anxiety at all, and when she doesn't respond for long moments, he can't help clearing his throat again and murmuring, “I don't expect you to feel the same way, Ruth. I-”

But she doesn't let him finish, lifting her eyes to his again, her hand reaching out to brush the moisture from her cheek, then rest upon his chest again. “But I do,” she whispers, her eyes alight with emotion. “I do, Harry. I just didn't dare hope...” She tails off, just staring at him, and he imagines that her emotions are similar to his own – a quiet sense of disbelief, wonder, delight.

He smiles, a big grin splitting his face, his right hand rising to cup her cheek, overcome by the joy, the euphoria of the moment, his pain, his exhaustion, his damaged body forgotten as he gazes into her eyes and murmurs, “That's good.”

“Just good?” she teases, eyes alight, smiling down at him as she presses her cheek into his palm, her demeanour open and playful, something that normally only happens after sex.

“Wonderful,” he amends, hand slipping round to the back of her head, drawing her to him. He kisses her softly, whispering it again, “Wonderful,” his heart soaring, the joy, the jubilation like nothing he's felt before. He kisses her again, then again, each kiss more passionate, more open, more filled with emotion. “I love you,” he murmurs, then kisses her again.

A breathless giggle of pure joy escapes her and she presses her lips against his ardently, her body against his right side, and he relishes it more than anything, any moment that's come before this one, all the passion they've shared so far. “I love you too,” she whispers, kissing him again.

“I wish I could make love to you,” he says when they eventually break apart to catch their breaths.

“I could-” she begins, her hand sliding down his body.

“No,” he interrupts. “I'm afraid that's unlikely to help tonight. I'm sorry.” There's not even a stirring down there despite their ardent kissing. His body has been through too much in the last 24 hours.

“Well,” she smiles softly, “a cuddle then.” And with that, she shuffles down and rests her head on his right shoulder, her arm wrapping around his middle, right leg hooking through his.

“This is nice,” he admits, turning his head to press a kiss against her forehead and squeezing her against him with his good arm.

“It's lovely,” she agrees.

He hums, closing his eyes and allowing himself to relax, the contentment to blanket his heart despite the dull ache in his shoulder that's refusing to subside in spite of the painkillers he's taken.

“Harry?” she murmurs after a moment.

“Mmmm?” he hums.

“What does it mean though?”

“Mean?”

“That you love me, that I love you. What do we do about it?”

He frowns, unsure what to say. To him, it means everything. Does she fall in love so easily that to her it means nothing at all? “I'm not sure I understand your question,” he says, trying not to jump to conclusions.

“I mean in practice. How does this change things? What do you want... for us?”

“I want us to be together. Properly together.”

“Live together?”

He hesitates. “Eventually, yes.”

But apparently, she picks up on his hesitation and lifts her head to look at him. “You don't sound very certain.”

“Do _you_ want us to live together, Ruth?” he asks, turning the tables on her.

“Eventually,” she replies with a teasing smile.

His gaze softens. Christ, but he loves this woman. She makes it so easy to hold back, and by doing so, makes him want to do the exact opposite – to trust her, to jump in with both feet, to embrace the consequences. “What is it _you_ want for us, Ruth?”

“Everything we have and more. More time together, shared experiences, companionship, love, fantastic sex,” she says, then hesitates before adding, “I didn't think you could offer me all that in the beginning. You being who you are – cautious, hard to read, secretive, an experienced spy, my boss...”

“A right bastard,” he suggests, reminding her of how this all began and earning him a smile.

“Yes,” she admits. “I thought I could never know you well enough, that you'd never let me in. And I also thought, both of us being in the Service wasn't a good thing. Too many secrets, too many obstacles, you know?”

“Yes... And now?” he asks softly.

“Now I think, I _do_ know you, better than I ever thought I would. I feel I know who you are deep down inside, though you've shared very little about yourself. It's like the facts of your life are irrelevant. Is that terribly naive of me?”

He smiles and threads his fingers through her hair. He loves her hair – it's so soft and long and lush and beautiful. “It can't be. I find myself thinking the same thing and I don't think anyone could accuse _me_ of being naive.”

She laughs. “That's true. And we can fix that anyway, can't we? We can share stories about our childhoods, families, university, our drunken adventures and disastrous one night stands.”

“We could,” he agrees, his heart almost aching with love for her as he watches her talk, her face animated, eyes dancing with pleasure. It's as if the realisation that she loves him too has unveiled the true depth of his love for her and he can no longer contain it. He's transfixed by her, by the joy, the rapture of having her near, telling him why their relationship can work, what she sees in their future. He's so besotted that he can barely follow the conversation.

“I think we can make this work if we try, and as to both of us being spies... Well, I think it makes it easier in many ways. It's easier to understand the limitations, the... baggage we each carry, and it's easier to support each other, through thick and thin.”

“That's true,” he agrees. “Trying to explain away an injury such as this would have been hell if you weren't in the Service, even if you _had_ signed the official secrets act. In my experience, it's virtually impossible to relate when you're an outsider.”

“And I imagine, it's hard not to feel resentful of the dedication and sacrifices the Service demands.”

“Yes.” She doesn't ask him about his marriage, though he suspects she's wondering about it, and it makes him love her even more for it and _want_ to open up. “In Jane's case, it was more the unfaithfulness of her husband that tipped the balance in the end,” he confesses, his cheeks heating with shame. “I was young and foolish. I was never the husband she deserved... nor the father my children deserved either.”

Her gaze softens and she reaches for his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I'm sorry,” she says.

He sighs. “Me too,” he admits. “If I could do it all again, I'd do everything different.”

“Have you told them that? Your children?”

“They... We don't speak often,” he confesses softly, his heart breaking at the painful reminder.

“Oh Harry,” she whispers, her compassionate gaze tipping him over the edge, and he has to fight to contain his tears. She must see his struggle because she quickly rests her head on his shoulder again and wraps her arm around him, squeezing him against her as the tears begin to spill over. How does she do this? How does she bring up so much emotion in him? How does she touch the best part of him and draw him into the light, make him want to do better, _be_ better, be worthy of her? “You have so much to give, Harry,” she murmurs softly, and he knows that she means it. “Don't give up hope.” She lifts her head and softly kisses his lips, wiping away his tears with gentle fingers. “A reconciliation is still possible. They're still young. So are you. Don't give up. Keep trying.”

He clears his throat. “I have Catherine's email somewhere. It's her birthday soon. I could send her a message.”

Ruth smiles. “That's the spirit. When's her birthday?”

“Four days before yours,” he says, pleased when her smile broadens. “You didn't think I'd forget, did you?” he teases gently.

“It crossed my mind.” She gives him a mischievous smile. “But then I realised I could just ring you and demand you return the present I gave you for yours if you didn't remember.”

He chuckles, ignoring the twinge from his shoulder. “Gladly,” he replies, “though I intend to do even better than that.”

“Oh good. I love presents. What are you getting me?”

“It's a surprise.”

“You have no idea, have you?”

He smiles. “I have several ideas. And now that we've established what we are to each other, it'll be easier to narrow it down.”

“And what are you getting Catherine?”

He frowns. He hadn't planned on getting her anything, scared she'd throw it back in his face. The last time he saw her, she was spitting nails at him.

“You've got to get her something, Harry. She's your daughter. How old is she going to be?”

“Twenty-four.”

She smiles, but there's something in her gaze as she looks at him that he can't quite put his finger on. “What?” he asks. She shakes her head, but he insists. “Ruth...”

“I was just thinking that I'm only ten years older than her,” she replies. “I mean, I knew your children were adults already, but I guess I never thought through the implications of that. I'm closer to their age than I am to yours.”

His chest tightens in apprehension, his expression turning serious. “That's true,” he concedes. “Is that going to be a problem?”

She smiles broadly and kisses him. “Only when you're ninety and I'm still in my seventies,” she replies, making him smile in relief.

“You've planned that far ahead already?”

“Well, you're a spy, Harry. I need to be prepared if I'm going to hide my younger lover from you when you can no longer satisfy me.” Her twinkling eyes betray her, and he knows that she's only teasing.

He narrows his eyes at her. “I _knew_ there had to be a catch. I knew I couldn't trust you.”

She smiles at him and tilts her head to the side, considering him for a moment before she leans a little closer. “And what about you, Harry? Can I trust you?”

“With your life.”

“I have no doubt, but with my heart? I wonder...”

He stares at her and mutters, “Christ!” trying to figure out how he managed to walk straight into this minefield. “Ruth,” he begins, but she interrupts him.

“Sorry. That wasn't fair.”

“No, it was, after what I said about Jane,” he admits. “I won't hurt you, Ruth, at least not in that way, not if I can help it, hurting you that is, not...” He sighs, knowing he's making a hash of this, but at least it makes her chuckle. “What I mean to say is that I'm... a serious man – some might say limited. I'm not in and out of love often, and as you've probably guessed, my marriage to Jane was a disaster, or at least it ended that way. Recovering from that took... Well, let's just say I'd planned to live out the rest of my life as a bachelor. Falling for you-”

“Was the best thing that's ever happened to you,” she interrupts, grinning and making him smile.

“Quite possibly, yes,” he agrees, pleased to see she's not taking this too seriously. “I'd not expected this, Ruth, but I don't intend to throw it away either. As much as is within my power, I'll do my best to love and to protect you-”

“And satisfy me,” he adds, her lips twitching with amusement.

“That goes without saying.” He smiles at her tiredly, feeling suddenly drained.

“You look exhausted. I'm sorry. I should let you sleep,” she says, looking contrite. She leans in and presses a soft kiss against his lips before turning to switch off the light. Then she moves closer again and cuddles his side, her head resting on the pillow beside his, her hand reaching for his, threading their fingers together and allowing him to raise it to his lips where he presses a soft kiss against her knuckles.

“Good night, Ruth,” he whispers.

“Good night, Harry,” she replies.

He lies in the dark with her body close to his, their joined hands resting on his stomach, but despite his exhaustion, sleep does not come, their conversation bouncing around his head, stirring up emotions and memories long forgotten and making him feel restless.

“Ruth?” he murmurs after a bit.

“Mmm?”

“I'll be faithful to you. I promise.” And though it's an easy promise to make now, when he's very much in love with her and hasn't even looked at another woman in months, he means to keep it, even if, years from now, their passion has cooled and he is tempted. He had loved Jane too, he remembers now, and they'd been a good match initially – before the Service had changed him – but he'd been young and foolish then, and he's determined not to repeat the mistakes of the past. He knows he is wiser now and not nearly as randy, which should certainly help him stick to his word, but he also has discipline and self-control in buckets, something his younger self had been sorely lacking.

She hums in contentment and he feels her press her head closer to his shoulder, rubbing it against him like a cat. “I know you will, Harry.” Her voice is warm and happy, and it lifts his heart to hear it.

“You do? I thought you were worried about that.”

“No. Not about that.”

“Then what?”

She's silent for long moments, but eventually she says, “The usual things – that you'll hurt me, that one day you'll not love me any more, that next time you get shot, it'll be fatal. I know there's nothing to be done about it. Life is unpredictable. It happens.” She's silent for a moment more, then adds softly, “The thing that worries me the most though is... I'm scared you'll use my love and loyalty, that you'll manipulate me into doing what you think is right, even when you know I don't agree with you. We live in the grey areas, you and I, and we have different shades of grey that we find acceptable. I accept that and love you anyway, but I'm scared of the... ruthless side of you – that you'll let it take over, that you'll not be honest with me and I'll be forced to compromise who I am, my beliefs, for an op or to be with you. And I know that would break me inside. It would destroy what we have, but it would also break me to have my feelings and principles dismissed like that and trampled on.”

He's silent for long moments after that, digesting her words as he squeezes her fingers with his own and turns his head to press his lips against her hair, somewhat floored by her honesty and, at the same time, in awe of her strength in sharing her fears. His first emotion is relief to know that she harbours similar fears to his own, his second gratitude and love. She's remarkable and beautiful and wonderful and he finds himself falling even more in love with her than ever.

“I don't know what to say, Ruth,” he murmurs in a husky voice, full of emotion, “except that I'll do my very best never to let that happen.”

“Thank you,” she replies, pressing her lips against his shoulder.

“Trust is a tricky thing,” he adds after a moment.

“Yes.”

“I've been betrayed many times in this business,” he confesses softly, the fact that they're lying in the dark and Ruth's honesty a moment ago, giving him the courage to open up a little more. “It's the nature of the work we do and, perhaps, what ultimately breaks us. I don't trust many people and... I'm afraid to trust completely. I'm afraid that, if I let you in, you'll betray me. That if something happened – someone set me up, accused me of something – you'd not stand by me. That you might help them, in a moment of anger perhaps or for revenge, or because you actually believed them. If I open up and then you turn against me...” He tails off unable to finish the thought.

She presses herself against him, her lips against his shoulder, her fingers tightening their grip on his. “I'll not betray you, Harry. I'm not a vengeful person and I know you're a good man at heart. I can't predict the future, but I promise that – no matter what – I'll never side with someone else against you, even if we're no longer together, even if you hurt me deeply and I can't stand by you, I'll not stand against you either. What is it the cousins say? I'll take the fifth?”

He smiles and squeezes her hand. “I guess we both need to learn to trust each other,” he murmurs softly.

“It's not an easy or a simple thing, but we're doing quite well, don't you think?”

“Yes.”

“And we don't need to rush, Harry. We can take things slowly, as we have been.”

He hums in agreement and contentment, turning to press another kiss against her forehead.

“We've made lots of progress already,” she babbles on. “This is the first night I've spent in your home, in your bed, the first night we've spent together that hasn't involved sex, the first time we've admitted that we're in love.”

He smiles into the dark. “I'm glad my physical condition gives us something to celebrate, Ruth, because had I been match fit tonight-”

“I wouldn't have barged into your home,” she interrupts, “and we'd probably still be drifting aimlessly along, wanting more, yet too scared to speak, to trust and move forward.”

He smiles. “So you're saying I should be grateful that I got shot?”

“No. I'm saying there's always a silver lining.”

“You're my silver lining, Ruth,” he confesses softly. “I've no idea what I've done to deserve this chance with you, to deserve your love, but I'm very grateful for it. You make everything better.”

She's silent for several moments but, when she speaks, he can hear the emotion in her voice. “I think that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me,” she says, releasing his hand to wrap her arm around him and draw closer, squeezing him against her in a fierce embrace.

“I love you,” he replies, kissing her forehead, her cheek, her lips as she turns her head and tilts it up towards him, seeking out his lips with her own, pouring her emotions into the kiss, her passion rising, overflowing. Her thighs clamp around his right leg as she pushes herself against him, moaning at the shudder that runs through her when she clenches her buttocks and grinds herself against him, and he wishes more than anything that he could somehow satisfy her tonight, though he knows such wishes are futile. The pain in his shoulder is bearable with the painkillers he's taken while he's lying flat on his back, but any kind of motion is out of the question tonight, even turning on his side to face her, let alone attempting to give her an orgasm, a fact that's unfortunately illustrated quite well when she lifts her right hand to cup his cheek and inadvertently knocks his shoulder, causing an involuntary moan of pain to escape his lips and her to quickly pull back, apologising profusely.

“Sorry. God, I'm so sorry, Harry.”

“I'm alright. It's alright, Ruth,” he quickly reassures her. “It's just a twinge. I'll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm fine,” he repeats. “Come back here.” And he draws her closer with his right hand against her back, until she's nestled against his chest again, her head on his right shoulder.

“I didn't mean to hurt you,” she murmurs.

“I know. Forget it, Ruth. I'm fine. Better than fine for having you here, with me.”

“I love you,” she replies, making his heart soar.

He presses a kiss against her forehead again. “Sleep,” he advises. “It's going to be another long day tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she agrees and he feels her body relax against him.

He smiles and closes his eyes, allowing himself to relax too, content in the knowledge that she loves him and the hope of many more nights like this one – of loving each other and falling asleep in each other's arms – to look forward to in the future.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello, all. I'm finally back from holiday and ready with an update. This one is set at the end of 3.01 and it's rather M-rated. Still trying to stick to Monday updates for this fic and, though I'm unsure how many chapters are left exactly, we are nearing the end of this story. Thanks for reading and for all your encouraging reviews. Cheers, S.C.

_Monday, 5 th April 2004 – Harry's Place_

 

She hums as she cooks, putting a dash of this and a dash of that in the curry, improvising as she always does. She loves cooking. It's so relaxing, especially when she's cooking for two, and especially when that other person is Harry and he's sitting just a few feet away from her. She still can't get over the fact that he loves her and that he wants more. If it wasn't for the mess at work that's keeping her grounded, she'd be floating on a cloud of giddy jubilation, unable to stop smiling or get anything constructive done at all. It's enough to make her almost glad of the crisis for she's sure every one of their colleagues would have guessed she's in love and likely would have guessed with whom too, once their suspicions had been roused and they began to pay closer attention. As it is, however, luring Carmen Joyce to London and lifting her had required most of her and Harry's focus and attention and very little had been left over for anything else, though she's absolutely certain that he took a peek down her top when she was showing him the camera feed from the spook taxi. She grins and turns to look at him, only to find him miles away.

“You're awfully quiet,” she comments.

He's frowning, the fingers of his right hand tapping gently against the table top, eyes staring into space. “Sorry,” he says, refocusing his gaze on hers. Clearly he's not thinking happy thoughts like her.

“Still dwelling on what happened to Tom?” she asks lightly, setting aside the wooden spoon before she lifts her glass of wine and takes a sip, still watching him.

He sighs and she sees him open his mouth to speak before hesitating and nodding his head instead. “We misjudged him so badly, Ruth.”

“Yes,” she agrees, setting aside her glass and crossing the distance between them to stand behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders gently before running her fingers through his hair, making him hum in appreciation. “But he only has himself to blame for that, Harry. If he hadn't been acting so erratic for weeks before it happened, no one would have believed him capable of it. Plus he shot you. I, for one, can't easily forgive or forget that.” She leans down and presses a soft kiss against the top of his head, lowering her right hand to his shoulder where she begins to gently massage away the tension she finds there, her left hand resting by his neck, her thumb running up and down the side of his spine, careful to avoid his injured shoulder.

“You're wonderful,” he murmurs, tilting his head back to look up at her.

“So are you.” She smiles down at him, stilling her hands and leaning slowly down to press her lips against his, the fact that he's upside down making it a delicious challenge.

“Hardly,” he replies when she pulls back and continues to rub his neck and right shoulder, his eyes closing as he rests the back of his head against her stomach. “I'm practically useless at the moment. You're doing all the work and-”

“I'm enjoying taking care of you,” she interrupts. “It feels good to be needed in unusual ways.”

“Unusual?” he frowns, opening his eyes again.

“Yes. Not for my body or my brains.” She grins at him, making him smile.

“Well, I'm grateful for all you're doing for me, Ruth, and I'll make it up to you – I promise – just as soon as my shoulder's well on the mend.”

“There's no hurry, Harry. This is the nice thing about being together: sharing the chores in life.” She presses her lips against the top of his head again and moves away, going back to check on the food.

She picks up the wooden spoon, scooping up some of the curry and blowing on it to cool it as she hears him say, “I've been thinking.” She turns to look at him, still cooling the food with her breath as she watches him fondly. “I thought maybe you'd like to... bring some things over – toothbrush, shampoo, and whatnot, maybe a change of clothes or two, some pyjamas...” He tails off, lifting his eyes to hers and she can't help but smile at the adorable, bashful look on his face.

Gingerly she scrapes a bit of food into her mouth with her teeth, being careful not to burn her tongue, moving it around her mouth to taste it before swallowing, sure that something's missing, but unable to put her finger on what it is.

“Taste this for me,” she says, crossing the room to his side again. “I'm sure it needs something. It's not salt...”

She blows on it some more and holds the spoon out for him, watching as his lips close over the edge of it to take a mouthful, distracted by them as he chews and swallows before his tongue darts out to lick them clean. _Christ_ , but she loves those lips.

“Bit more sweetness maybe?” he suggests, his brows furrowed pensively.

“Yes!” She snaps her fingers then leans down and kisses him, just because she can, just because she wants to, just because he's got the most perfect lips in the world. “Jam,” she declares as she pulls back. “That's what I forgot to put in. Where is it?”

“Middle cupboard,” he says with a smile and a fond look in his eyes.

She crosses the kitchen once more, setting the wooden spoon aside again to open the cupboard, which turns out to be pretty much chock-a-block full of jam. “Sweet tooth much, Harry? Which one is open?”

“Possibly all of them,” is his dry reply.

“Raspberry, strawberry,” she reads off the labels, “peach, apricot... Apricot should do nicely.” She pulls it out and opens the lid, reaching into the draw for a teaspoon to add some to the sauce, closing the lid again and sticking it back in the cupboard with the teaspoon in her mouth, humming happily.

“I love you,” he says out of the blue and, when she turns to him in surprise, it's to see him watching her with soft, adoring eyes and a besotted kind of look on his face.

She smiles, pulling the spoon out of her mouth and dumping it in the sink. “I love you too,” she tells him. She's not felt this content, this happy in such a long time, and now that she's sure he's on the mend and can see the improvement in him over the last two nights that she's spent with him, she can't help how that happiness is overflowing and spilling out of her all over the place. She can't stop smiling at him, can't stop humming along to the music playing in her heart, can't stop touching him, kissing him, loving him. She very much wishes that he was well enough for sex, but she knows that he is not and is happy to make the best of it, to find other ways of loving him, like making him his dinner. In fact, it's probably good for them – after the way that they began – that they cannot take things to the bedroom yet. Being together is about so much more than sex and she's glad that they're getting the opportunity to discover that.

“I rather like sleeping in your shirts though,” she says as she turns to stir the jam into the curry.

“And I enjoy seeing you in them,” he replies and she can hear the smile in his voice. “Much better than pyjamas for easy access.”

“Harry!” she protests, but it's half-hearted. She switches the ring off and turns to him, closing the distance between them and straddling his legs, sitting in his lap and reaching her hands up to cup his stubble-covered cheeks, his right hand running up from her knee, under her skirt, to cradle her left butt cheek.

“Ruth,” he states, lips smirking at her.

“That was a very naughty thing to say when you're still incapacitated,” she admonishes, leaning in to capture his lips with her own, sighing into his mouth as his lips mould to hers, softly kissing her back at first, then becoming more hungry, demanding more as he pulls her bum closer with his right hand and slips his fingers under the elastic of her knickers to cup and grasp it firmly.

“You love it really,” he growls against them, before trailing kisses along her jaw to her neck, his lips and tongue doing delicious things to her, as his hand strokes and kneads her flesh. “You love it when I tease you.”

“Maybe,” she gasps, her hips jerking, a whimper escaping her as his teeth scrape against a particularly sensitive spot. “Oh Christ!”

“Besides,” he murmurs between kisses, “I'll have you know that I'm not entirely incapacitated.” And with that, his right hand moves round her thigh, his thumb gliding over the front of her knickers, her hips jerking as she gasps in surprise and pleasure, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt around his waist, the only place she's sure she can hold onto without hurting him.

“Harry,” she moans, his touch exquisitely firm, teasing her and chasing all thought out of her head at once.

 

* * *

 

It's the first night that he's felt up to doing this for her, and though he knows he's not at all ready for her to reciprocate, he wants more than anything to watch her come, to give her that pleasure after the way she's taken such good care of him, after they've admitted their love, after she's agreed to be with him – together.

He sucks on her throat as she gasps and moan in pleasure, as her body sways towards him and away again, feels her tremble and whimper as he slips his fingers under the edge of her knickers, tracing her dripping folds, her pulse thundering under his lips, her chest heaving, her lips forming a desperate plea as her left hand grasps his forearm, pulling him towards her. “Please, Harry,” she gasps, all exquisite abandon.

“I love you,” he growls and licks her skin, slipping two, think fingers inside her, his thumb circling her clit, her breath hitching, insides quivering around him, her back arching away from him, connecting with the table behind her, her low moan of pleasure music to his ears.

“Harry,” she breathes, hands releasing him as she pulls her arms back to support her weight with her forearms on the table, her hips lifting and driving down towards him as a breathless, “Oh God!” escapes her lips.

He wishes he could touch her, kiss her, hold her against him, wishes it was his cock that was buried inside her instead of his fingers, but he knows that this is the best he can manage at the moment. His left arm is still in a sling, his shoulder unable to cope with her weight if she slumped against him, so he contents himself with just watching, soaking in the exquisite beauty of her flushed face, her heaving chest, the hint of cleavage and her gently bouncing breasts as she lifts and lowers her hips impatiently. He wishes he could see them, wishes she were naked in his arms, but though his fingers and thumb are working hard to tease her and prolong the build up of her pleasure, he doesn't think she would forgive him if he withdrew his hand altogether to strip her naked, and besides, he's not at all sure he could manage it anyway, one-handed.

“Oh Christ,” she moans, driving her hips down once more, grinding against the base of his thumb and whimpering before she sits up suddenly and deftly pulls off her top and bra, tossing them aside, as if she's read his mind. Her eyes are alight with lust as she reaches for his face, kissing him hard, passionately, her hips twitching and making her moan into his mouth and pull back to stare at him. “I love you,” she says, her eyes fierce and so very blue as she looks at him, and for the first time since he's been shot, he feels a stirring in his trousers.

“I love you more,” he growls, thrusting his fingers into her and making her cry out, vibrating his thumb against her clit, watching her face as her eyes slide shut and she falls back against the table once more, her mouth open in an O of surprise and pleasure, her head falling back as he continues his unrelenting onslaught, her breath escaping in pants and gasps as she begins to tremble.

He watches her neck and chest flush, her dusky nipples pebble as her knees tighten their grip on his hips, her thighs clenching together and releasing rhythmically as he drives his fingers into her, her jaw moving, neck muscles tightening as with each thrust she moans an, “Oh, oh, oh,” of pleasure, the pitch of her vocalisations rising until she finally breaks with one final cry that turns into a long, drawn out moan of ecstasy.

She's glorious, dazzling, utterly enthralling, and he cannot remember a time he enjoyed her pleasure more, cannot help the way his heart takes another tumble, or the way his vision blurs with tears at this profoundly moving experience.

Her climax lasts several moments as he watches, blinking back the tears and doing his best to prolong it with the movement of his thumb and fingers, but when she finally stills, he can hold back no more, slipping his fingers out of her and reaching for her, his hand getting tangled up in her skirt a bit as he desperately tries to grasp her to him, leaning forward as far as he can without straining his shoulder to press his lips against the side of her breast, tasting the sweat on her skin, unable to speak as he finally untangles his right hand and slides it up her back, pulling her away from the table towards him.

She moans, boneless as a doll while he draws her against him, trailing kisses up her chest to her neck and the side of her face, whispering his love for her as he feels her weight shift towards him, her head resting against his right shoulder as he leans back again with her draped over him like a blanket. “I love you,” he whispers again, tightening his arm around her.

She hums but doesn't move and he can't help feeling rather proud of himself in that moment – never before has he managed to reduce her to an incoherent, boneless mass. He chuckles, nuzzling her neck and making her whimper in protest, clearly displeased with the roughness of his cheeks and making his smile broaden. “You're perfect,” he confesses softly, nuzzling her again. “Every day I love you more. I don't know how that's possible, but I do. Every day, every hour, every minute.”

She lifts her head slowly at his confession, her eyes hooded and sated and shining with her love for him as their gazes meet and hold. She doesn't speak, just smiles gently, her gaze softening, eyes melting into liquid pools of love and devotion, and he has no doubt that she feels the same way. How can that be, he asks himself, unable to see how _anyone_ could love _him,_ of all people. But she does – he's sure of that – and he doesn't bother wasting time looking a gift horse in the mouth. He will just continue to love her, enjoy her, have her, and thrill her, for as long as she will allow it.

“Dinner?” he suggests, beginning to feel the weight of her and a twinge of protest from his shoulder.

“Yes,” she agrees, her voice a little hoarse as she sits up in his lap and clears her throat, then sighs softly, smiling at him as she lifts her left hand to cup his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispers, pressing a gentle kiss against his lips.

“My pleasure.”

“Later,” she promises with a knowing little smile.

She doesn't miss much, his Ruth, he thinks fondly as she carefully stands, her legs somewhat wobbly, rendering her a little unsteady on her feet for a moment or two as she holds onto his right shoulder for support, leaning her body against him. And though he rather doubts the possibility of success in that department later – he's feeling far too exhausted already – he doesn't say anything now. Instead, he just turns his head and presses his lips against her naked stomach, inhaling the scent of her while she drops her right hand to stroke the side of his face.

“I love you,” she says, tracing his eyebrow with her thumb, her fingers stroking the hair on the side of his face, above his ear. He hums in contentment, pressing another kiss against her stomach, feeling blissful.

“Right,” she says after a moment more. “Food.” And with that, she steps away, picking up her bra and blouse, draping the former over the back of a chair and donning the latter before she crosses the kitchen to get some plates and cutlery sorted, resisting his attempts to help with a frown and a command to sit that makes even Scarlet obey when she makes an appearance at the French windows, scratching to be allowed back inside.

He laughs and she joins in as she crosses the kitchen to let his little dog in, telling her, “Good girl, Scarlet,” and leaning down to stoke her. Scarlet barks in delight and rushes over to his side, sniffing his legs and nuzzling his hand before she starts to lick it enthusiastically, surprising him until he remembers that he hasn't washed his hands yet after Ruth. Clearly he's not the only one who enjoys the taste of her.

He chuckles at the thought, but when Ruth asks him what he finds so amusing, he just shakes his head and gets up to wash his hands at the sink.

“I thought I told you to sit,” she frowns.

“I'm only going to wash my hands, Ruth. Keep your hair on.” He grins at the glare that earns him, then smiles more sedately as she walks over to his side and takes his hand in hers, washing it for him, seeing as he'd have to remove his sling and use both hands if he was going to manage on his own.

She makes a face and mutters, “I know I wanted you badly, but this can't be all from me, surely!”

And he can't help himself after that, grinning as he murmurs teasingly, “It's mostly slobber actually. Apparently, Scarlet rather enjoyed the taste.”

He watches the blush spread across her cheeks, her eyes remaining resolutely downcast as she begins to wash his hand more vigorously, muttering to herself so softly, that he almost misses her stunning response. “No need for peanut butter then.”

His bark of laughter, makes Scarlet visibly jump, which only adds to his amusement, especially when he sees Ruth's blush deepen and her lips twitching in mirth as she suppresses a smile.

“You are a minx and I absolutely adore you,” he says, leaning down to nuzzle her neck again and making her squeal in protest.

“Stop it, Harry,” she admonishes, stepping back and reaching for the towel to dry their hands. “You're not allowed to use your cheeks as a weapon.”

“I am if you use cheek as yours,” he counters, earning him a smile.

“You're too quick-witted by far, Harry Pearce,” she complains.

“Hardly. Peanut butter?” he reminds her softly, watching with a grin or pure delight as her cheeks burn.

“Yes, well. It's something I read in a book once and it just popped into my head, as things tend to do,” she says defensively, lifting her chin in defiance. “And besides,” she adds quickly, her eyes suddenly shining, “I'm not the one with a dog in the house. How did _you_ know about the peanut butter thing?”

He grins, utterly enchanted by her. She's so perfect. He just can't get enough of her.

“As it happens, I think one of the older boys in school mentioned it when I was at a rather impressionable age.”

“Oh my God!” Her hand flies to her mouth, her eyes suddenly huge. “Did you try it?!”

He laughs. “No,” he reassures her. “Though I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted. We had rather a large dog at home at the time, however, and he loved sausages, so I didn't dare risk it.”

Her peal of laughter is even louder than his own had been and makes poor Scarlet jump again and whine in protest, but Ruth doesn't seem to notice, her whole body shaking with her laughter, much to his delighted amusement. In fact, she laughs so hard and for so long, that he has to reach for her hand and lead her to a chair at the table where she doubles over, clutching her stomach and gasping, “Sausages! Oh my God, I'm going to pee.”

He chuckles and takes a seat beside her, quietly advising, “Breathe, Ruth. Just breathe.”

Eventually she calms, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand and taking herself off to the toilet while he finishes setting the table. His shoulder has began aching again, but it's too early for more painkillers, so he does his best to distract himself from the pain with thoughts of Ruth and how lucky a bastard he really is. He still can't believe how wonderfully this has all unfolded between them, how content, _happy_ he finds himself suddenly, how much more his life feels worth living.

“I can't believe that's the first memory from your childhood that you chose to share,” she says as she walks into the room and takes a seat, chuckling again and shaking her head at him before she begins serving their food while he pours some wine for each of them.

“I'd actually completely forgotten about it,” he confesses, taking a sip of his drink.

“How could you possibly forget something like that? I think I probably remember most things that happened to me, especially the ones that caused me to die of embarrassment.”

“Good. Because you owe me a good story,” he replies with a smile.

“Yours was hardly a story, Harry, let alone a good one.”

“It made you laugh so hard you almost wet yourself, Ruth. _That_ is a hallmark of a good story.”

“Okay, fine. But I'm not telling you the embarrassing ones. And you have to wait until after I've eaten. I'm famished.”

And so it is that they tuck into the delicious curry Ruth's prepared for them, happy and relaxed in each other's company, and he can't help thinking that he's going to have to brush up on his culinary skills if he's going to pass muster when it's his turn to cook, and thanking his lucky stars that, if all else fails, he can at least be certain that he can make up for it in the bedroom afterwards.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Probably a couple more chapters to go after this one, unless I include an epilogue too. This chapter's set after 3.02. Hope you enjoy and thanks so much for reading and reviewing. You make my day! Cheers, S.C.

_Friday, 30 th April 2004 – Ruth's Place_

 

He fingers the keys in his pocket, hesitating momentarily before he removes his hand and rings the doorbell instead. He swallows nervously and adjusts his tie, waiting for her to answer the door. He's been such an idiot. He can't _believe_ how much of an idiot he's been, in fact, and as he hears her unlock the door, he can't help lifting his eyes up and silently praying that this will go well and she'll forgive him. He doesn't think he'll survive losing her – not now, not when things have been going so well.

She smiles softly at him as she opens the door, which does wonders to calm his racing heart and the butterflies in his stomach, but the warmth he's accustomed to seeing in her gaze is dimmed, and he can't help berating and kicking himself again. “Hi,” she says softly, pulling the door open. “Forgot your key?”

“No, I...” He hesitates, clearing his throat nervously before he continues. “I wasn't sure... I didn't want to intrude.” He brings his left hand forward, holding out the bouquet of roses and lilies he's been hiding behind his back. “For you. Happy belated birthday, Ruth. I'm so sorry.”

She gives him a crooked smile and takes the flowers, tilting her head forward to sniff them, perhaps in an attempt to hide the sheen of tears in her eyes. “Thank you,” she says and steps back. “Come in, Harry.”

He walks into her home and slips his coat off as she closes the door behind him. So far so good, but he daren't hope he is forgiven yet. There is still much to make up for.

“Glass of wine?” she offers, stepping past him down the hall to the kitchen. “Or some food? Are you hungry?”

“I'm fine,” he replies, but his stomach betrays him, letting out a ravenous growl of protest that makes her smile briefly.

“I'll take that as a yes, then.” And she leaves him no choice but to follow her through to the kitchen.

She immediately sets about washing her hands and pulling another glass out of the cupboard, leaving him to fill it from the practically empty bottle on the table, that's standing next to another glass that's half-full – presumably hers. He fills his glass with what remains in the bottle before picking up the other one and crossing the kitchen to her, holding it out for her to take, saying, “I'm fine, Ruth. Really. Don't trouble yourself. I didn't come here so you could feed me.”

She's already heating some soup for him in a saucepan, so it's a bit of a pointless gesture on his part to try to stop her. She's always feeding him, always taking care of him, and he'd wanted so much to reverse their roles tonight and make up for the disaster that was yesterday.

She accepts the glass he hands her and lifts her eyes to his, taking a sip before replying, “Is it sex you're after then?”

He drops his gaze in surprise and hurt, caught between guilt, anger, and shame at such an accusation. “No,” he murmurs, squashing down his indignation and lifting beseeching eyes to hers.

She gives him a dubious look. “Are you sure? You seem to be trying to get me drunk. You must realise I've already consumed more than half that bottle.”

He winces and drops his gaze again, trying to find the best way forward. She's clearly upset – as he'd expected – despite the brave face she's trying to put on. He's hurt her and that's something he never wanted to do.

“I don't need to get you drunk to seduce you, Ruth,” he says, trying to lighten the mood with some humour.

It backfires quite spectacularly.

Her eyes flash as she straightens her spine and sets her glass down with a loud thunk, tilting her head to look down her nose at him. “Oh, you're so full of yourself, Harry Pearce. There isn't a woman alive who can resist you, is there?”

“No.” He hastily puts his glass down next to hers and reaches for her hands, but she pulls them away. “It was a joke, Ruth. I didn't mean-”

“A joke?!” she seethes. “I waited for you for hours last night, Harry, and when I grew worried and tried to reach you, you didn't bloody answer your phone! And now you think...” She chokes on the last word, lifting a trembling hand to her mouth, but when he reaches for her, she steps back, eyes flashing at him despite the silver tear that rolls down her cheek. “I can't do this now. Eat your soup. Drink your wine, Harry, and go home.” And with that, she spins on her heel and swiftly leaves the room.

He tries to stop her, but despite her shorter strides, he can't seem to catch her, her agility proving a distinct advantage as she negotiates the furniture and stairs with practised ease and locks herself in her bedroom.

“Ruth, please,” he entreats her, forehead and palms pressed again her door.

“Go away, Harry,” is her firm reply.

“I'm not leaving, Ruth. Not until you hear me out. Not until you let me make it up to you,” he growls determinedly to no avail. Her only response is a stony silence.

He stands there for an indeterminable length of time, heart aching for her, ears straining to hear anything, emotions in turmoil. He only has himself to blame, of course. Her reaction is a perfectly reasonable one given the circumstances, and eventually, he simply sighs and turns away, going back downstairs to the kitchen where he switches off the ring and eats. He's a master at forcing himself to eat even when he doesn't feel like it. He hasn't eaten since eleven when he had a pastry with his coffee on his way to the Home Office and he knows that his body needs the sustenance.

Then he cleans up the kitchen and locks up the house, opening and closing the front door for good measure, not above a little deception if it means Ruth comes out of her room again so he can face her and explain. He thinks about getting in his car and driving away to complete the deception, but he's accustomed to parking a few blocks away from here – to give himself the opportunity to slip any tails he might have missed – and he knows Ruth's bedroom doesn't face the street, so he deems that unnecessary. He merely takes his coat away, stealthily going back into the living room, taking up a position in the corner in the dark, with his glass of wine in his hand and a throw over his shoulders, waiting for his chance.

It doesn't take more than half an hour before he hears her door creak open.

He tenses, soundlessly setting aside his glass and pulling off the throw before he eases himself out of the armchair and reaches for the cushions on the floor beside him. Quickly, he arranges them on the chair and covers them with his coat and the throw, then silently crosses over to the door, wedging himself behind it and waiting while he listens to her creep down the stairs, his many years of training coming to his rescue as he manages all this without a sound, keeping himself focused and centred and his breathing calm and quiet.

He feels the air shift as she steps into the doorway, hears her breath hitch when she spies what she thinks is him, sleeping in her armchair. He waits with bated breath, unsure of her emotions at the sight of him, willing her to cross the room so he can spring his trap, adrenalin coursing through him.

“Oh Harry,” she sighs softly, and there's such warmth and love in her voice that he begins to panic that he's made the wrong decision. Would it have been better to have stayed in the chair and pretend to be sleeping?

Too late now, for she's crossing the room as he'd hoped she would and it's time to spring the trap. Slowly he pushes the door closed as she reaches the armchair, the hinges working smoothly and soundlessly until the moment when she reaches out to touch what she thinks is him, and discovers his deception. Then several things happen at once: she gasps in surprise and, he thinks, a little fear, the door creaks and closes with a click, making her spin round wide-eyed to face him, and he says softly, “Looking for me, Ruth?”

Even in the darkness, he can see her gaze harden, can see the adrenalin rush transform into anger.

“You bastard!” she says, and despite the stab of fear that he's made yet another mistake in the way he's handled this, he can't help the way his heart leaps to hear her say that, or the way a small smile spreads across his lips.

“Isn't this where we came in?” he murmurs.

She just glares at him, watching like a cornered animal as he advances slowly towards her.

“I'm sorry,” he adds softly, imploring her with his eyes.

“For what?” she demands accusingly.

He sighs, stopping a few feet in front of her. “Everything,” he says in defeat.

“How convenient.” She glares at him, hands balled into fists, utterly unmoved by him.

“Ruth...” He sighs again. “I'm terrible at this.”

She lifts her eyebrows. “This? _What_ precisely?”

“Getting things right. Knowing what to do to fix things. Relationships in general.”

“No kidding,” she replies, crossing her arms, and her face is so stony that he can't help the panic that grips his heart.

“I'm so sorry, Ruth,” he says, lifting his palms towards her. “I didn't forget. I promise you. I had planned...” He clears his throat. “I had planned to take you out. To dinner. To a place I know that I thought you'd like. I'd booked a table and, after dinner, I'd planned for us to walk a bit around Greenwich, sit on a bench together in the park, have a bit of whisky from my hip-flask, perhaps share a few kisses in the moonlight. The weather was mild and I thought you'd like that.” He blinks and clears his throat, looking down for a moment to compose himself. “But then-”

“Tom happened,” she finishes for him.

“Yes.” His heart skips a beat at the change in the tone of her voice, flooding with hope. He takes half a step closer. “Please, Ruth,” he implores. “I never meant to hurt you. It was so unexpected and I... I'm so sorry, Love. I'll make it up to you. I promise. Please, just give me another chance.”

She sighs. “I'm beginning to hate Tom,” she says, her eyes sparkling at him for a moment, lips giving him a lopsided, little smile.

He takes a step closer, then another and another until he's standing right before her, but once there, he hesitates, unsure if his embrace will be welcome.

“Hold me,” she says simply and his arms are round her in a flash, drawing her against him, holding onto her with a fierce kind of desperation.

“I'll never let you go,” he growls, tilting his head forward, leaning into her, pressing a kiss against her temple.

“That's a tad possessive,” she mumbles into his chest, but her arms tighten their hold on him, so he's not worried.

“Damned right, it is. You're mine.” He nuzzles her neck and she sighs and tilts her head back, making him rather glad he remembered to shave and giving him better access to her neck and her lips that he takes full advantage of for many wonderful moments.

 

* * *

 

When they eventually surface from the kiss, she nestles her head under his chin and sighs in satisfaction, allowing her anger and something of the pain she's been feeling to drain away. She understands that he didn't set out to hurt her on purpose and, if that's the case, how can she stay angry with him for long? How can she not forgive him? He's been quite wonderful to her most of the time, and their relationship has been going so well. It's inevitable that they'll inadvertently hurt each other at _some_ point. It doesn't mean she doesn't love him still. It doesn't mean he doesn't love her either.

“It wasn't that I thought you'd forgotten, Harry,” she murmurs after a bit. “I knew decommissioning Tom was difficult and painful for you. But I'd hoped you might... come to me, confide in me instead of going off on your own.” She'd _hoped_ , but she hadn't expected it really. Leopards don't change their spots – at least, not so quickly, so easily as all that. With time perhaps, as the trust continues to grow between them, maybe he _will_ seek her out in such circumstances, but she knows his training and experience so far, perhaps even his very nature, have moulded him into a self-reliant loner. He doesn't open up easily, her Harry, and if she's honest, that's something they have in common.

He's silent for long moments before he eventually replies. “I'm sorry, Ruth,” he says. “I needed... space to clear my head. And by the time, I was ready to come to you, it was late and then I suddenly remembered what day it was and...” He pauses and, as she leans back to look at him, she can't help smiling at the uncertain, slightly embarrassed look in his eyes. He was probably terrified of her reaction last night and couldn't bare to face it, she realises with a mixture of fondness, exasperation, and not a small amount of smug satisfaction.

“You thought I'd be angry and you couldn't face that on top of everything else,” she finishes the explanation for him.

He smiles, looking rather sheepish. “Yes,” he admits. “Forgive me?”

He looks so earnest, so sweet that she is very tempted to let him off the hook already. She tilts her head to the side, pursing her lips pensively, doing her best to hide the fondness in her heart.

“I'll make it up to you,” he hastens to add.

_Now we're talking!_

“How?”

“A weekend away together, like we did for Christmas, only better. I have it all planned out. All you have to do is say yes and pack your overnight bag.”

That stuns her. “We're leaving _now_?!”

“I was thinking in the morning,” he explains. “I know you're rostered off for the weekend and I just need to make a quick call to Adam to let him know there's something I need to take care of and he's in charge while I'm gone. It's not too long a drive. Depending on when we set off, we'll be there by mid-morning or lunchtime, and I've already booked the B&B and everything.” He pauses to look at her with beseeching eyes. “What do you say, Ruth? Let me make it up to you. Please.”

She smiles. She can't help it. For someone as inept as he claims to be at relationships, he's doing alright really and, judging from her last experience of going on a mini-break with him, she knows he's planned this meticulously and that she's certain to enjoy it.

“Where are we going?”

“It's a surprise,” he replies, beaming at her.

“Hmmm,” she hums, leaning in and watching with satisfaction as his eyes darken and his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. “The thing is, Harry, I've had enough surprises for one birthday, all of them not very good ones, in fact, so... if you tell me where you're taking me, I might be persuaded to let you sleep in my bed tonight, rather than the sofa.”

He frowns, his face almost comical as he processes this.

“You really wouldn't rather wait-”

She slips her arms over his shoulders. “And if you're quick about it, I might even shag you.”

“East Sussex,” he says immediately, making her chuckle.

“Brighton?”

“Not exactly.”

She just presses a soft kiss against his lips and pulls back, lifting one eyebrow.

“Maresfield.”

“What's in Maresfield?”

He hesitates, then takes a deep breath and explains. “It's near Ashdown Forest, where-”

“Christopher Robin played as a child. Oh Harry,” she sighs happily, marvelling at how wonderful he truly is, how well he knows her. “I love you,” she says, drawing him close, her lips finding his, his arms wrapping around her and pulling her flush against him, reciprocating gladly, hungrily, with a passion that leaves her breathless.

“I'm sorry,” he murmurs and kisses her again, drawing her lower lip between his teeth. “Forgive me.”

“Forgiven,” she gasps, hands grasping his head and kissing him harder. “I want you naked in my bed, Harry. I want you to make love to me.”

“Mmmm,” he hums. “I love it when you proposition me, Ruth.”

“And I love it when you fuck me.”

He growls, kissing her hard once more before he pulls back, grasps her hand, and marches out the room and up the stairs with such urgency and determination, that she can't help laughing as he practically drags her along behind him.

“He nodded and went out, and in a moment I heard Winnie-the-Pooh – _bump, bump, bump_ – going up the stairs behind him,” she quotes with a delighted giggle. 

He pauses and turns to her, his eyes full of such fondness and love that she cannot help the way her heart skips several beats and melts at the sight of him.

“I love you,” he says and kisses her so sweetly that she realises that, in spite of everything, this is the best birthday she's ever had and that she's never been this happy. He's wonderful and he's hers and she loves him so much that she's fit to burst with it.

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you all for your kind reviews. I'm still unsure if this has one or two chapters left to go. We'll all have to wait and see what my Muse has in mind. In the mean time, I hope you enjoy this update, set during 3.03. Cheers, S.C.

_Tuesday, 13th July 2004 – Ruth's Place_

 

“Harry?” she murmurs, lifting her head sleepily to look behind her.

“It's me. Sorry, I'm so late. Go back to sleep.”

She feels the mattress dip and him shuffle closer, feels his lips press against her shoulder and she sighs in contentment. It's been a few days since last they managed to spend a night together, so they'd agreed that – no matter what – Harry would join her at home tonight. Clearly he'd been detained longer than either of them would have liked, but it happens sometimes during an active op and she's just happy to have him near, no matter what the time.

She smiles and shuffles back, pleased when he wraps his arm around her waist and spoons himself around her.

“Alright?” he asks softly.

“I'm glad you're home,” is her simple reply.

They're silent after that, each enjoying the warmth of the other, being together, feeling loved.

“I was talking to Zoe yesterday,” she murmurs after a bit, too wide awake to fall back asleep immediately. He hums in response, so she continues. “She says Will's invited her to a wedding this weekend.”

He's silent for long moments and she's not sure if he's contemplating his response to that, or if he's fallen asleep already.

“Harry?”

“I'm here.” He sounds cautious. “Is that... some kind of hint, Ruth?”

“Hint?” She frowns in confusion.

“Zoe and Will going to a wedding.”

She smiles. “No. It's just normal conversation, Harry, about two people we both know.”

“Ah. Well... I've never met him, but she seems to like him.”

“She does. She had him vetted.”

“She did.”

Silence falls between them once more.

“It got me thinking,” she says after a bit, realising that no more comments will be forthcoming from Harry.

“About what?”

“Vetting.”

He doesn't respond to that either, so she shifts around in his arms to face him, getting a little frustrated by the one-sided nature of their conversation so far. She can't tell if it's because he's tired and wanting to sleep, or because of other reasons, perhaps his fear of saying the wrong thing and causing friction between them. He's like this sometimes when the topic of conversation is a little off the beaten track and he's unsure of his footing. She wishes he would share more of what he's thinking, but she's sure it will come with time, with a little more patience and love and a few more months together as a couple.

“We're supposed to have done that, aren't we?” she asks once she's lying on her side, watching his reaction. “Not the vetting, I mean. We've both been vetted. Just the paperwork, the-”

“S24,” he finishes for her.

“Yes.”

He's staring at her, his gaze fathomless in the gloom. “I'm not sure what you want me to say, Ruth.”

“I want you to have a conversation about this with me. I want to know, for instance, how much trouble we'll be in when it's discovered that we're seeing each other without filling in the correct paperwork.”

He frowns. “I don't think anyone suspects anything, do they?”

“I don't think so,” she replies with a fond, little smile as she reaches across to touch his chest. “I noticed Claire at the Home Office was flirting with you as usual the other day, and she didn't stop when I appeared.”

“Ah yes,” he smiles a little sheepishly, she thinks. “Always good to have a source or two at the Home Office.”

“You shameless spy, you!” she admonishes lightly, leaning in for a soft kiss.

His arms snake around her, drawing her in, prolonging the contact and the kiss between them, taking his fill of her and kindling the fire in her that his proximity always rouses.

“Mmm,” she hums, fingers running through his hair, hooking her right leg over his hip.

“Do you want me, Ruth?” he asks, voice low and seductive.

“Always,” she replies, kissing him some more.

“How much?” His left hand squeezes her bum, pressing her against him, then releasing her, fingers reaching round to stroke her intimately over her pyjamas.

“Much more than bloody Claire at the sodding Home Office.”

He chuckles and rolls her underneath him and it's some time before either of them speak again as the room fills with the sounds of their love making.

 

* * *

 

“Why are you suddenly worried about paperwork?” he asks a little while later. In truth, he would love nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep, but he can feel the tension in her still and he knows she'll not sleep well unless he helps her get her thoughts in order. His experience tells him that, sometimes, she just can't relax even after an orgasm or five. He loves her dearly – this daft, brilliant woman – and he'll do anything for her, including forgo some sleep to make sure she rests too when they finally both succumb to slumber.

“I don't know.” She pauses and turns onto her stomach, lifting her head off his shoulder to look down at him. “I suppose it's because I feel... confident in us. I know we'll be alright and I'm not so scared of people knowing any more. I mean, I know it'll be awfully uncomfortable for a few weeks, maybe longer, but I know we'll survive it and it won't be for nothing in the end. So the next logical step is to have a plan for when we feel read to... come out, so to speak, or when we are discovered.”

He smiles. He can't help it. Ruth's confidence in their future making his heart sing.

“I don't foresee any consequences for you, Ruth, from filing the appropriate paperwork a little late.”

“A _little_ late?! It's been almost a year already, Harry.”

He gives her a conspiratorial look. “But they have no way of knowing that, do they?”

“Sneaky spook,” she says and he can hear the note of approval in her voice.

“Sneaky is my middle name.”

“You said spooky was your middle name.” Her eyes twinkle at him.

“Sneaky, spooky, sexy – take your pick.”

She laughs then leans down to kiss him. “Change it along with your tie every morning, do you?”

He smiles, then asks suddenly. “What was in that bag Adam put on your desk earlier?”

She frowns. “What bag?”

“The one from that expensive lingerie shop.”

That makes her blush and she buries her face in the pillow beside him. He chuckles in amusement, rolling onto his side to face her, his left hand gliding down her back as he nuzzles her neck, making her squeal – he hasn't shaved tonight.

“Stop it!”

He smiles. “Did you think it was from me?” he teases softly. “Should I be buying you skimpy, lacy underwear now, Ruth?”

She huffs, lifting her head abruptly and glaring at him, her hair mussed, cheeks flaming, making her look so very desirable and sexy. “I did, for a moment, wonder if it was from you, but no. I no longer want anything like that and, if you buy me any such thing, I shall refuse to wear it.”

His face falls, knowing from experience that she really means that. When Ruth says something in that tone, she's not likely to backtrack any time soon – stubborn, infuriating woman that she is.

“I'm sorry,” he says contritely, moving back to give her space, another thing he's learnt about her. “I didn't mean to-”

“Take the mickey?”

“I was aiming for playful teasing. I'm sorry I crossed a line.”

She sighs, dropping her face back into the pillow as he watches, fingers crossed for luck. He also knows from experience that an honest apology, followed by an offer to make it up to her, is the quickest way back into her good books. He has rather a lot of experience in saying or doing the wrong thing. Her mind is so different from his own that – while they are frequently on the same wavelength at work and able to bounce ideas off each other in a most gratifying way – away from the Grid, he often has trouble understanding where she's coming from, what she wants and needs, and how on earth they can both begin at the same starting point and reach entirely different conclusions.

“Here,” he says softly, daring to reach his hand forward and touch her back, gliding up to her shoulder. “Let me rub your shoulders, Love. You seem unable to relax tonight. Let me help.”

She doesn't respond so he gingerly sits up and begins to rub her shoulders for her, feeling rather pleased when she sighs and turns her head towards him, moving her right hand to rest it on his knee as she hums in appreciation.

“What's really bothering you tonight, Ruth?” he asks after a bit, continuing the massage down her back, enjoying her sighs of pleasure.

“You'll think it's stupid.”

“I won't. You're the most intelligent person I know. I doubt I'll ever think anything you say is stupid.” She doesn't reply immediately, but he just waits patiently for her, continuing the rhythmic motion of his hands, hoping she will confide in him.

“I was jealous,” she says eventually.

“Jealous? Of what? Of whom?”

“The others,” she confesses quietly, his hands continuing to rub her back to soothe her. “Zoe being able to tell me about Will and her plans for the weekend. And then Adam casually leaving a present for his wife lying on my table. It's stupid, I know, but I want that too. I want to be able to casually mention my plans and talk about my boyfriend and have presents delivered to my work... But it can't happen. You're Harry Pearce – Head of Section. I'll never be able to casually mention our plans without them all feeling uncomfortable and, as to you leaving lingerie bags on my desk, forget it.” She sighs, unaware of the turmoil her words have created in him. “I want to be normal like that, I want what we have to be normal, but I also _don't_ because that would mean that you wouldn't be you and I love you and I wouldn't trade you for anyone else in the world.” She turns onto her side and sits up, taking his hand in hers. “That's what's bothering me tonight.” She gives him a small, crooked smile and drops her gaze self-consciously, her hands toying with his fingers. “I told you it was stupid.”

He smiles and gently pulls her into his arms, murmuring into her hair, “I'm sorry, Ruth. I'm sorry I can't give you normal... But, for what it's worth, I don't believe you were ever meant for normal. You're too bright, too beautiful, too brilliant for that. You were born to stand out, Ruth, not to blend in and be normal.”

She sighs and tightens her arms around him. “You say the most wonderful, most perfect things to me, Harry.”

He kisses her temple, all but sighing in relief, before he decides to quit while he's winning and suggests they get back in bed, at which point, Ruth goes off to the loo while he straightens out the covers. Then they both pull their pyjamas back on and he spoons himself around her, murmuring a quiet goodnight to each other and closing their eyes in peace.

“I like it when you spend the night with me,” she mumbles after a moment when he's almost asleep.

“Mmmm,” he hums in agreement.

“I wish we could do this every night,” she confesses softly, but they're both so near sleep that it's not until much later the following day that he processes the implications of what she's said and he begins to plan accordingly.

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay, so I lied. This chapter got too long and I've decided to split it, which means there are two chapters more after this and probably an epilogue too. Hope no one's disappointed by this development. This chapter is set during 3.04. Enjoy and please leave a review. Your wonderful feedback gives me life and I can't thank you enough for it. Cheers, S.C. x

_Tuesday, 5th October 2004 – The Grid_

 

“Ruth?”

She looks up. “Danny. What can I do for you?”

“What do we know about Harry and his daughter?”

She frowns, her heart thumping hard in her chest. “How'd you mean?” she asks cautiously.

“It's just... Harry wants me to get her to talk.”

He looks rather troubled and she's relieved to realise that he's only come to her for information in her capacity as analyst. “Right... Well, it seems reasonable since she's involved in-”

“And wear a wire.”

She stares at him incredulously for a moment until she realises he's serious. “Oh Harry,” she sighs, shaking her head in fond exasperation. How can such a lovely man know so little about how to treat the important people in his life?

“What?” Danny asks, frowning at her, underlining how much he really has no idea what's going on between her and Harry.

It's amazing, when she thinks about it, but she supposes that they've done a good job of keeping their lust and sexual encounters well hidden, and as to the rest, it's been quite gradual – the growing trust between them – and the others have just attributed it to how much of a help she's been during these last few months of Tom's unravelling and the aftermath of his departure. Now that things have calmed down, however, and Adam has become a permanent fixture on the Grid, she has a feeling that they're bound to pick up on something _eventually_ that'll raise their suspicions. With Catherine involved in this op and Harry clearly under some emotional strain, perhaps this is the time when it'll all come out in the open, and she can't quite tell, at the moment, if she's more scared or strangely excited by the prospect.

“His children were young when he divorced,” she says cautiously, reluctant to share too much of Harry's personal history, yet knowing that Catherine's unexpected involvement in the Palestine Freedom Campaign entitles the team to _some_ of the details. “Catherine was seven at the time. After that... who knows? It seems clear that they're not very close now.”

“Yeah,” Danny sighs. “I don't like it.” He rubs one hand over his head in distress.

“I don't blame you. You're going to have do it though. Just promise me you'll tread lightly, Danny, and be careful. They might not be very close, but I suspect Harry loves her dearly, so don't do anything stupid.”

He looks offended. “Me? Stupid?”

“You know what I mean, Danny.” She gives him a pointed look.

He smiles. “Yeah. Alright. Don't worry, Ruth. I'll be nice. Thanks.”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” she mutters to herself as she watches him go. She knows what Danny's like with pretty, young women, but she doesn't dwell on that too long. She has more important things to worry about than the sex life of a grown woman – namely how best to broach the subject with Harry of him spying on his daughter.

There's so much she still doesn't know about Harry Pearce – the state of his relationship with his children being just one such thing. She wonders if he ever did send a present to Catherine for her birthday as she'd suggested. Perhaps he forgot or perhaps Catherine hadn't wanted to accept it. _Poor Harry._ Whatever the history between them, however, she's sure that spying on her is not going to help and she hopes to make him see that.

Sadly, she doesn't get the opportunity to talk to him until after the event, however, when Harry comes home to her in quite a state of emotional withdrawal. Clearly something was said that has wounded him deeply, so much so that he cannot get past it despite going off on his own again as he'd done after Tom, on her birthday. He's so distant, in fact, that it's a wonder he chose to come to hers at all tonight.

“Hello,” she smiles. “Dinner?” she offers lifting her eyes to his when he steps into the living room doorway.

“No, thanks,” he replies, his voice low and flat.

“Whisky then?”

“That would be grand.”

She gets up and crosses the room to him, reaching for his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze as she smiles softly up at him and kisses his cheek.

He sighs, squeezing her hand in return and resting his head against hers for a moment.

“Take a seat, Harry,” she says. “I'll be right back.” Then she slips out of the room, returning shortly with a glass for him and the whisky bottle.

Soon they're sitting in silence on her sofa together, his left hand cradling his glass and lifting it to his lips every so often for a sip, his right arm wrapped around her, cheek resting against her head as she cuddles him and rests her head on his shoulder.

“You alright?” she asks after a while, feeling rather concerned about him. She's not seen him like this before. Even after Tom, he'd not been this remote and distant.

He doesn't answer for the longest time and, when eventually she lifts her head to look at him, he simply raises his glass to his lips and drains it, removing his arm from around her shoulders to reach for the bottle on the coffee table. It'll be his third glass and she can't help reacting.

“It's getting late,” she observes softly, running her fingers over his shoulder and the back of his neck. “Come to bed, Harry.”

He doesn't respond, but he pours only a small amount of the amber liquid before replacing the cork and resting his elbows on his knees, his hands cradling the tumbler as he hangs his head and hums at the way she continues to caress his skin and the curls at the nape of his neck, endeavouring to soothe him.

A few minutes later, she tries again, murmuring softly, “Come to bed, Harry.”

He sighs and nods his head, so she withdraws her hand and collects her empty wine glass and the whisky bottle, taking them through to the kitchen where he soon follows with his empty tumbler. She's already stowed away the whisky in the cupboard and is putting away the food she'd had for dinner, when she feels him hovering behind her.

“Can I help?” he asks, his voice gravelly from lack of use, or maybe it's emotion.

“I'm fine. Go have a nice, relaxing shower. I'll be with you in a moment,” she suggests.

He nods tiredly and turns away, and by the time she makes her way upstairs and slides into bed beside him, he seems a little more relaxed and open.

She smiles at him and leans in, murmuring, “I love you,” before she presses a soft kiss against his lips and pulls back, gazing fondly down at him as she softly caresses the side of his face.

“Do you?” he asks, the vulnerability in his voice piercing her heart.

“I do,” she says gently, yet firmly, smiling at him. She's not quite sure how to support him, how to reach him, how to make things better for him, but as she watches the moisture gather in his eyes, she can't help the surge of affection, of love, of passion for him, and the desperate need to show him. So she leans in again and kisses him more firmly this time, her fingers tightening their grip as she cradles his face and whispers, “A lot,” before kissing him again. And as the passion rises within her, she feels him respond with his own, his breath hitching as he fights to contain his emotion, his arms drawing her closer.

She makes love to him that night with all the fierce tenderness in her heart, forcing him to _feel_ her love, her passion for him, taking control and _showing_ him how wonderful she thinks he is, how beautiful and true, how strong and worthy.

“I love you,” she repeats over and over again as she moves above him, kisses him, caresses him, cradles him inside her. And he seems to feel it, accept it, and cherish it as his hands draw her closer, his hips rise up to meet her, driving himself further into her, his kisses fevered, passionate, desperate, in between his gasping breaths and mantra-like murmurs of her name.

His cheeks are damp, she realises as she whispers her love again and lifts her head to look at him, gazing into haunted, beautiful eyes that are full of so much love and pain, open and more honest than she's ever seen them.

“Let me in, Harry,” she murmurs softly as she moves above him, eyes holding his gently. “I love you. Let me share the pain. Let me soothe it. Let me shoulder the burden with you.”

His eyes close for a moment, fresh tears sliding down his cheeks, his hands gripping her hips more tightly as she grinds herself against him, her lips feathering kisses over his forehead, his nose, his cheeks and eyelids.

“Let me in,” she repeats, watching him as she moves, his laboured breathing telling her that he is nearing the edge. She wants tonight to be all about him, wants him to feel her love, wants to dismantle all the barriers he's erected around his heart, and most of all, she wants to _see_ him, all of him, as he comes inside her. “Look at me, Harry,” she whispers.

He does, eyelids sliding open, his eyes shining up at her, gaze arresting, open, overflowing with emotion, sucking all the air out of her lungs, tears welling up, her lips curving with joyful elation. “Now come,” she orders, softly, gently, her hips rolling against him, watching with wonder as he does, hands gripping her hips more tightly, hips driving up, his eyes – oh, his eyes – windows into his soul as his breath arrests and he tenses before he breaks with a quiet moan and spills himself inside her.

It is the most moving, most beautiful thing she's ever seen, and as he shudders and sighs and relaxes into the mattress, she can't help pressing a myriad soft, happy kisses against his face before she finds his lips and snogs him for all she's worth, utterly overcome by him.

When the need for air overpowers her, she releases his lips, resting her forehead against his, right hand cupping his face, her left forearm on the bed, keeping her suspended above him, a giggle of pure joy escaping her to have experienced the bliss of feeling this close to him. “I love you,” she whispers again.

He hums, so she lifts her head to look down at him, smiling, stroking his cheek, overwhelmed. He seems calmer, happier, reassured, more hopeful. “Thank you,” he says softly.

She just smiles and presses a kiss against his nose before sliding carefully off him, but he doesn't let her go far, his arm tightening around her to draw her close, tucking her head under his chin, his left hand moving up and down her back as she wraps her arms around him.

Silence stretches on for some time before eventually he says, “You didn't finish, did you?”

“I'm fine,” she replies, pressing another kiss against his chest. “Better than fine. Don't worry about me. It's _you_ we need to worry about.”

“Nonsense,” he replies, pulling back and leaning down, his right hand fisting in her hair as his lips close around her earlobe, his mouth hot and wet, fingers trailing over her buttocks as she moans and arches her back towards him. Her body comes alive instantly under his touch, his passionate lips, his talented fingers inside her, and before long she's crying out, shattering in his arms.

Her body is limp, mind blank and blissful, the steady rhythm of his beating heart pressed against her ear, soothing her, lulling her slowly into slumber, but before she can succumb to the pull of sleep and the exhaustion of her body, his voice rumbles in his chest, husky and low, dragging her back into consciousness as her mind moves sluggishly to string the sounds together into words and decipher their meaning.

“Catherine told Danny I was dead.”

 _Jesus!_ No wonder... _Oh Harry!_

“He asked her if her parents were worried about her going back to the West Bank,” he continues, seemingly unwilling to stop now that he's started to unburden himself. “She said, 'My mum is'. And when Danny asked about me, she said, 'My dad's dead' – just like that – 'Or he might as well be, anyway'.” His chest heaves and she realises how very much it's costing him to confess this. “She was my first-born, Ruth. She _made_ me a dad and now...” He swallows and clears his throat. “Now I might as well be dead for all she cares.”

“Oh Harry,” she breathes, turning on her side to face him and wrapping him in her arms as he begins to weep, great sobs shaking his body while she holds him, rubs his back, and presses soft kisses against the side of his face. “Oh love. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Harry.”

It hurts so much to see him like this and a part of her is very angry at his daughter for causing him such pain – even though Catherine had no way of knowing he was listening in, no way of divining how much she was hurting her father.

When eventually he quietens, she's at a loss as to what to say to make him feel any better.

“I suppose I deserve it,” he murmurs, drawing back and wiping his eyes with his fingers, his voice still raw with emotion. “I wasn't there for them after the divorce. There was always something at work that made me miss custody weekends, and later – in their teens – it got to be so _hard_ to relate that I eventually gave up trying. It's no wonder really that she thinks she's better off without me.” He sighs and rubs his temples with his free hand, his other clasped tightly in her own.

“I don't think that's what she's saying, Harry,” she says softly, lifting herself onto her left forearm to see him better. “Think about it. She said you were dead, but then she backtracked very quickly, admitting that you're not but you might as well be, anyway. I don't think she doesn't care, Harry. It sounds to me like she's a young woman who very much wishes she _had_ a father. She's saying you're not a part of her life, but she's not saying she wouldn't like you to be.” She pauses, smiling down at him and lacing their fingers together before she continues, “You're a good man, Harry. I imagine your children have some very fond memories of you from their childhoods. And as someone who lost her dad quite young, I can tell you that there isn't a day goes by when I don't wish that he was here... to see me now, to hold me and tell me how very proud he is of the woman I've become.” She blinks back the tears welling in her eyes. “You can fix this, Harry, if you want to. It's not too late, I promise you.”

His gaze softens, his fingers squeezing hers in gratitude. “You're too good to me, Ruth, you know that? I'd be utterly lost without you.”

“There now, you see, I happen to think that's a good thing. I'm good for you, you're good for me. We make a good team, you and I.” She kisses his lips softly, then lies down again beside him, a large yawn surprising her and making him chuckle.

“God, sorry.”

“Sleep,” he tells her and she doesn't argue, murmuring goodnight and closing her eyes, falling asleep in a heartbeat.

 

 

_Thursday, 7th October 2004 – The Grid_

 

“Yes, Adam. That'll help. I've been doing that for twenty years and look where it's got me,” he murmurs in defeat, turning around and leaving the room, heading into his office.

An agent of the November Committee. He simply can't believe it.

_Catherine!_

No way.

She's been making documentaries about the plight of the Palestinian people for years now. She's been a passionate advocate for them. She's _always_ taken the side of the underdog, always stood up against the bullies, taken in the strays, cared for the injured. Even when she was little, she used to look after all the broken things.

He smiles as a memory surfaces of a three-year-old Catherine bringing him a broken toy to fix, saying, “Daddy, mend it,” looking up at him with such faith, such confidence that he wouldn't let her down. There had been other instances too over the years – baby squirrels and birds she'd found that had fallen out of their nests, the pigeon in the park with the broken wing, the mangy cat she'd convinced him to take in. There had been no tears, just gentle compassion and a certainty that he would help her help them, fix any problem she laid at his feet. But that had been before the divorce, before he'd failed to fix the one thing that had mattered to her most – keeping their family together.

He sighs, massaging his temples as he stares down at the photograph in his hand, trying to get his head around how his daughter – who has always hated what he does – could ever come to be involved with a man from Israeli Military Intelligence. There must be some mistake. This surely can't be possible. But _how_ can it be wrong when _Ruth_ had been the one to find it?

His anger flares again at the thought of her. Why hadn't she come to him first with this information? How could she have let him find it out in front of the entire team? How can she not _see_ that his daughter – _his daughter –_ couldn't possibly be involved with an organisation that espouses something as despicable, as _vile_ as ethnic cleaning? He'd taken her to see the Berlin Wall fall, for Christ's sake! He'd-

The door slides open, revealing Ruth, her eyes worried as they seek him out, but changing instantly as they alight upon his sullen face, taking on a determined glint as she steps into the room and slides the door closed behind her.

“Before you say anything,” she begins without preamble, “I _did_ plan to come to you with what I'd found before the meeting started, but there simply wasn't time.”

He sets his jaw and purses his lips, annoyed that she should have read his mind and have a perfectly reasonable explanation. He knows it's highly probably that she's speaking the truth, knows how hard they've all been working on following up leads, decrypting Swift's computer, sifting through tons of surveillance, and despite his rounding on Adam earlier, he _did_ know that all the members of the Palestine Freedom Campaign were being watched because _Ruth_ had told him.

“Look, Harry,” she says, gentling her voice as she takes a few steps towards him. “Adam knows, we all _know_ it could be circumstantial.”

_Could be?_

“She can't be the agent,” he replies vehemently. “She just can't. She's spent months out there filming, trying to direct the world's attention to the plight of these people, Ruth. She hates to be told she'd wrong. She's emotional, pigheaded and stubborn as a mule. There's no _way_ anyone could change her mind – turn her – _especially_ not someone from Military Intelligence.”

He's started pacing back and forth across his office, his agitation rising, overwhelming him. This is his _daughter_ , his little girl and he can't bear the thought of it. He must protect her, he _must_!

 _Christ,_ he needs a drink.

He turns, flinging the photo of Gilad Laskar onto his desk as he crosses to his decanter, his hands shaking as he lifts it, chest heaving with emotion. His head spins, he can't breathe, and he feels himself begin to sway on his feet, but then she's there, hand sliding down his arm to take the decanter from him, her cool hand on his cheek, turning him to face her, her eyes warm and blue, a balm on his battered heart to soothe him. She says something, her lips move, but he cannot hear her over the roaring in his ears, and then she's gently guiding him over to his sofa, coaxing him to sit and kneeling before him. Her hands reaching up to loosen his tie and the collar of his shirt, cool hands pressing against his flushed skin, her gaze still holding his as he feels the pressure ease and he draws air back into his burning lungs.

“Just breathe,” she's saying softly. “It's going to be alright, Harry. I'm here. Just breathe and everything will be alright.”

He sighs and closes his eyes, hands reaching for her, resting on her hips – so solid and strong – and immediately he feels grounded. They'll fix this. Together. Just like they do with everything else.

He tries to draw her closer, but she's on her knees already and doesn't budge, so he leans towards her instead, forehead resting on her shoulder as her fingers thread through his hair and her lips press softly against his jaw.

“Better?” she whispers after a moment or two.

“Much,” he admits on a sigh.

“Good, because I suspect we've got rather a big audience gawking at us by now.”

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Continuing on from the last chapter, there is one more chapter after this and then the epilogue that has yet to be written. Thanks so much for sticking with this story and for all your encouraging reviews. S.C. x

_Thursday, 7th October 2004 – The Grid_

 

~~“ _Good, because I suspect we've got rather a big audience gawking at us by now.”_~~

“Shit!” He lifts his head abruptly and straightens up, snatching his hands back as if burned, his eyes on hers, probing deeply, more than a little worried about her reaction. “Ruth, I...” He tails off, unsure of what to tell her.

Her cheeks are flushed, her gaze a little embarrassed, but she doesn't bolt or turn away, giving him a crooked little smile instead and murmuring, “It was bound to happen eventually. We can't hide forever, Harry.”

“No, but...” He sighs. “I'm sorry, Ruth. This is terribly unprofessional of me.” He still hasn't dared to look through the window, but she's right – there's little hope that _no one_ has seen them for, though they're tucked away in the corner somewhat, they're in full view of part of the Grid, more of it when one considers that they had to cross his office together to get here.

“Perhaps,” she acknowledges quietly, “but it's terribly human too, Harry, and your humanity is one of the things that I love most about you.”

He smiles, eyes softening with love. “I suppose we'd better file that paperwork today then.”

She nods, giving him a small smile in return. “I've had it ready for weeks, waiting for the right time to hand it in.”

His heart warms to hear that. “I'd say the right time is upon us.”

She nods again and takes a deep breath. “Come when they may, they shall not find us skulking and hiding, as if we feared to take our portion of the light of day, and left it all to them,” she quotes, resting her hands and her weight on his knees for a moment as she stands.

He follows her up, smiling. She really is marvelous, his Ruth. “Hornblower?” he asks.

“Dickens,” she replies with a small smile and soft look before she turns to leave his office.

His eyes follow her across the room for a moment before he turns abruptly to the window, needing to know who witnessed his moment of weakness and the evidence of his closeness to Ruth.

There's a handful of them – young admin staff and junior officers – who drop their eyes in haste and go into a flurry of activity, and he can't help the way his heart sinks to see them. There's no hope, then, that the news of his involvement with Ruth won't spread through the Service – and beyond – like wildfire. He should probably attempt to see the DG today to get his signature on his own S24, as well as pushing through Ruth's paperwork. Far better for both of them to preempt the gossip and make it appear that the latter resulted from them filing the appropriate paperwork.

None of his senior officers seem to have born witness to what happened, except Sam, who, unlike the younger crew, is still staring at him with lips slightly parted. She has no subtlety, that one. How does she ever hope to become a proper spy? He narrows his eyes at her and watches with satisfaction as she quickly closes her mouth and drops her gaze, but instead to turning away like the rest of them, she simply lifts her eyes again and gives him a dazzling smile. She has balls at least, he acknowledges to himself as he holds her gaze, waiting for her to look away first before turning back to his desk. Much like Ruth, Sam has never really feared him – something he's always found rather disconcerting. She's certainly the only one of his officers besides Ruth who's ever dared to hug and kiss him – though, thankfully, in a very chaste way – and as his thoughts turn to Catherine once more, he can't help hoping that she too will, one day soon, feel as comfortable around him as Sam clearly does, comfortable enough to show her affection physically – or at least allow him to do so – and perhaps even tease him on occasion.

 

* * *

 

She leaves Harry's office with her gaze lowered, though she tries to keep her head held high. She's been thinking about this and worrying about it for so long, but it's not made it any easier to deal with, now that she finally finds herself here. Part of her can't quite believe how bold she was, back in his office, where on earth she'd found the courage, but her concern for Harry had overridden everything else as she'd watched him sway and struggle to breathe and she'd just gone to him, desperate to help, terrified his heart had given out or worse, and she was about to lose him.

She can't quite face the Grid floor, so she takes the corridor towards the technical suite, trying to martial her thoughts and come up with something to justify her seeking out Malcolm. She hasn't got very far, however, before Zoe rounds the corner in front of her, her expression so shocked, that Ruth has no doubt she witnessed all of what just happened.

“Ruth?” she says and pauses, seemingly lost for words. “What...?”

“It's Catherine,” she replies instantly, babbling in her anxiety. “The thought of her being an agent for the November Committee. It's really stressing him out. He... he couldn't breathe and...” She tails off, losing her momentum as she realizes that this isn't helping and, moreover, is likely doing some damage to Harry's image and authority. He certainly wouldn't thank her for exposing his moment of weakness like this.

Zoe frowns at her. “So you and Harry-” but she never gets to finish her sentence as Sam materializes behind her.

“Oh my god, Ruth!” She exclaims breathlessly, rushing towards them, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, looking alarmingly excited. “I can't believe you didn't tell us! How long's it been going on?”

“How long's what been going on?” she manages to stutter, only to wish that she hadn't.

“Hochmagandy with Harry, of course,” Sam replies, waving an impatient hand.

“Hochma-what-now?” Zoe looks confused.

“Sex!” Sam exclaims, only to realize that she's just made a huge assumption. “You _are_ shagging him, aren't you?” she asks earnestly, turning back to Ruth.

Sometimes she hates Sam's candor and her teasing, jesting nature, though at other times, she thinks that it's fantastic. Nights on the town or a drink at the George with Sam are always a riot and she's always felt grateful for Sam and Zoe's friendship and the camaraderie they share as the women of Section D. She's not found anything like it at work before, not since her student days at Oxford.

“Nice, Sam. Classy,” Zoe observes sarcastically.

“What?”

“You couldn't think of a nicer way to ask that? Not everyone jumps into bed with a guy at the first opportunity, you know.”

“Are you saying you didn't bang Will the first chance you got, then?”

“Well...”

“See? I bet Ruth got Harry in the sac faster than you could say porridge. He's hot and I bet his _good_. Am I right?”

“Hot? Harry?!” Zoe looks a little stunned.

“Yeah. Those pouty lips and, have you looked at his arse lately?” She turns to Ruth and adds quickly, “Not that you've anything to worry about, Ruth. He's not my type and, besides, I think he's really quite smitten.” She giggles and looks gleeful and Ruth has absolutely no idea what to say to that.

Silence stretches on for several moments as both Zoe and Sam look at her expectantly. It's weird and uncomfortable, but at the same time, not as bad as she thought it would be, and she can't help feeling a surge of gratitude for Sam, and for Zoe, for seeking her out and talking to her, still treating her like a friend and giving her a good ribbing, rather than withdrawing in shock and recoiling at the thought of her shagging their boss and telling him all their secrets.

“Well,” she says eventually and clears her throat, unable to find the words. How can she put into words all that Harry means to her? How can she make them understand how special he is? How they have nothing to fear from this? How she values their friendship and her biggest fear has always been that people will judge her, look down on her, and sneer at her for being with Harry?

Sam sighs in exasperation. “Come on, Ruth! Someone's gonna come looking for us soon and give us a good bollocking for not getting any work done. It's simple. Are you dating Harry?”

“Yes,” she says meekly.

“I knew it!” Sam exclaims, her big grin giving Ruth courage. “How long?”

She hesitates, unsure of how to answer. She can't possibly admit the truth. “You know when Tom-”

“Oh my god! _Ruth!_ It's been months. And you didn't say _anything_?!”

“Oh sure, because you'd tell us all, Sam, if you were dating the boss.” Zoe comes to her rescue.

“Okay. You've got a point. You _do_ love him though, don't you?” Sam asks.

She swallows. “Yes, I do.”

“Awwww,” Sam coos. “That's so sweet. How did it happen? Did he ask you out?”

They look at her expectantly, but before she can answer, Sam's speaking again, wiggling her eyebrows. “He seduced you, didn't he?”

She frowns. “Maybe I seduced him,” she replies, annoyed suddenly at the assumption that she's taken a back seat in her relationship with Harry.

“Brilliant!” Sam claps her hands in glee.

Ruth drops her gaze, a soft smile gracing her lips as she thinks of Harry. “Yes. It is. He's... lovely.”

“I knew he had a softer side,” Sam agrees. “Like a bear that turns into a teddy.”

Zoe looks at her askance, but privately, Ruth thinks that's quite a good description of Harry.

“I've been so scared to tell anyone,” she confesses softly, knowing that she needs to say this. “I thought everyone would think that I have... ulterior motives for being with Harry because – well, that's probably obvious – but you guys have been great and I just wanted to say thank you.” She glances up at them to see them both looking pleased and a little bashful. “And I also feel I should say that I hope you know that I wouldn't betray anyone's trust by telling him things I shouldn't – private things, I mean, like people pulling a sickie or – I don't know – stuff no one wants their boss to know about. Truthfully, we rarely talk about work at home-”

“At home!” Zoe sounds shocked. “You're-”

“No, no. I meant when we're together... at his place or mine,” she hastens to explain.

“Told you. Hochmagandy.” Sam grins at her, making her blush. “Is he any good?”

“Bloody hell, Sam! He's our boss. I really don't think I want to know that,” Zoe objects.

“Well, _I_ do.”

“Sam,” Harry's low voice makes Sam's eyes widen so far that Ruth has to lift her hand and cover her mouth to suppress a giggle, “Adam's looking for you.”

“Yes, of course, Harry.” She turns, her eyes glued to the floor, and hurries away, Zoe right behind her, and it's only once they're gone that Ruth allows herself a laugh.

“Were they really just asking you about my sexual prowess, Ruth, or did I just imagine that?” He looks a little dumbfounded.

“Oh no. That just happened. Standard female conversation, I'm afraid,” she explains with an amused smile. “Don't men talk about that kind of thing?”

“Not...” he begins, then tails off, still looking a little bemused. “No.”

“So what would your mates ask you about me then? If I can cook?”

He chuckles, reaching for her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Are you alright?”

“I'm fine.” She smiles up at him.

“You're sure?”

“I'm fine,” she reiterates. “Relieved they don't seem to hold it against me.”

“Good,” he says, holding her gaze in a way that he's never allowed himself at work before.

“Harry, we really shouldn't...” she murmurs, yet finds herself unable to look away. “People knowing doesn't mean we should give ourselves license to act any differently than we have been.”

He smiles, his eyes softening further as he continues to gaze at her. “You're right. Mooning over you is not very professional.”

She laughs and looks down for a moment, blushing, then lifts her eyes back to his.

“What would you have told Sam if I hadn't interrupted?” he asks, his eyes twinkling.

She grins, knowing full well what he's hoping to hear, yet unable to resist the temptation to keep him guessing. “I thought we just agreed to stick to work, and I have a lot of it to be getting on with.”

He hums and purses his lips, perhaps considering the possibility that the answer to his question might not be a favorable one. “I'm on my way to see the DG,” he says. “I wanted to sign and file your S24 before then, if you have it?”

“Of course. I'll just go get it.” She smiles up at him and walks away, pausing to look back as she's about to round the corner. “My answer would have been 'the best',” she says, the twinkle in his eye and the smug smile on his lips lifting her spirits and easing her remaining anxiety. Not everyone's reaction will be as positive as Sam's and Zoe's has been, but she'll survive it and their relationship will survive it and, at the end of the day, she'll have Harry's love and warmth to look forward to, which makes it all worthwhile.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: At last, the final chapter. I'm still working on the epilogue as I feel this fic needs one, but I've yet to settle on an idea for it, so there might be a slight delay in posting. In the mean time, this chapter is still set in 3.04 and I'd like to acknowledge borrowing a few lines of dialogue from canon. Thank you so very much for all your support and wonderful reviews. Hope you enjoy this update. Cheers, S.C.

_Friday, 8th October 2004 – Harry's Place_

 

“How many women have you seduced for Five?” she asks, her fingers drawing patterns across his stomach, toying with the fine blonde hair she finds there.

The hand caressing her hip stills and she can feel the sudden tension in him. “I don't know.”

“You don't remember?”

“It's been over a decade since I was last in the field, Ruth.”

She hums to acknowledge this fact. “But isn't it the kind of thing men like to keep track of and brag about?”

He's silent for a few moments before he admits, “Once upon a time, perhaps, but I honestly no longer recall the number. Why do you ask?”

“I don't know. I suppose I'm wondering how you do it – seduce someone you hardly know, someone you often have reason to dislike, despise, or _even_ be revolted by.”

“You mean like David Swift?”

“Yes.”

His hand resumes its motion down her arm and back again. “You do it because you have to, because it's the only – or the quickest – way to get information or take someone out of the picture.”

“But how do you... perform? How do you not recoil in disgust?”

“You find something about them that's attractive. Everyone has a least one thing. Perhaps they're physically alluring, or well read, or they've travelled. Maybe they dance well, or they're charming, or they love food, or films, or something. You focus on that one thing that you can admire and on _why_ you're doing what you're doing. And you need to remember, Ruth, that you're not yourself in that moment. You go in with a legend. You _become_ the legend. And while it helps to have some things that are the same between yourself and the person you're pretending to be, it's equally important to make certain that other things are entirely different. It's not really _you_ carrying out the seduction.”

She sighs. “I don't know, Harry. It sounds impossible. I don't think I could ever do it.”

“Not everyone is as bad as Swift and we _all_ do it, to some extent, to cultivate an asset. How many mathematicians from GCHQ do you have wrapped around your little finger?” His voice has a tinge of pride in it as he says this and it makes her smile and blush with pleasure.

“Like Claire from the Home Office, you mean?”

He chuckles. “Exactly.”

“All the same, I'm glad Adam picked Fiona for this, though I can't imagine how he feels, watching her flirt with Swift.”

“Proud, I should think.”

“Proud? You don't think he's jealous?”

“Of Swift? Why would he be? It's all an act and Adam knows it. She's not Fiona Carter tonight, but Karen Bailey. Besides, where there's trust and love, there's no room for jealousy, just pride in her accomplishments.”

She smiles against his shoulder. “Is that how you feel about me?”

“Yes.” He turns his head and presses a kiss against her forehead. “I am immensely proud of all your accomplishments, Ruth.”

“Especially the blow-jobs,” she teases, making him laugh.

“Don't forget the Sheppard's Pie you made the other day,” he teases right back.

She smiles and sighs in contentment, cuddling closer to him as her fingers continue their journey over his soft skin. They lie in silence after that for a little while before she speaks again.

“Do you think she's got him yet?”

“I hope so,” he replies, voice husky and low. “I can't wait to nail the bastard.”

She lifts her head from his shoulder to look at him at the note of malice in his voice.

“What?” he growls. “ _No one_ threatens my daughter and gets away with it, Ruth.”

She smiles as she watches her teddy-bear Harry turn back into a bear.

“No one threatens any of my loved ones,” he adds, eyes dipping to her lips as he raises his right hand to cup her head and draws her in for a kiss. It's not soft or gentle as she expects, which takes her a little by surprise. It's been a while since the last time he's wanted her more than once on the same night, so the passion he unleashes is entirely unexpected, though as always, very welcome.

When he pulls back, they're both breathing heavily, but he doesn't release her, his strong arm holding her close to him, eyes probing hers deeply. “I want you near me, Ruth,” he says seriously. “Now everyone knows, I'm afraid you will be in danger and I need to know that I can protect you.”

Her mouth opens in surprise. It's not that she hasn't considered this before, but somehow, she's managed to forget that they've kept their liaison a secret for reasons more important and sinister than her desire to avoid being talked about behind her back and have assumptions made about them. And it's true – she's been with MI-5 long enough to know that family members of powerful people _do_ need extra protection.

“Near you, how?” she asks, searching his gaze, her heart suddenly pounding.

“A few weeks ago you said that you wished we could spend every night together,” he replies, his voice low and measured.

“Did I?”

“You did,” he says firmly, clearly undeterred by her apparent forgetfulness. “And back in April, you said that you'd eventually like us to live together.”

She hums, pleased and happy to hear that he remembers.

“So I think that it's time for us to do just that,” he finishes.

She smiles. “What about Scarlet and Fidget though?”

“I have a feeling they will like it,” he replies with a smile of his own, clearly pleased that she hasn't shot him down yet and is considering his proposal. “I know Scarlet will be pleased not to be left to her own devices every time I want to see you and, I imagine, Fidget will feel the same.”

“There is that,” she agrees, smiling. “Whose house would we live in?”

“I don't much care,” he says immediately. “As long as I have you and Scarlet, I'm a happy man.”

She smiles at him, thinking how easy to please, how truly wonderful he is. “Here then,” she tells him. “You have fewer things to move anyway. You're renting yours, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” He reaches his hand forward to stroke her cheek, his gaze warm and open.

“When will you move in?”

“Well, I need to give a month's notice, but I suspect it'll be easier to do it gradually. I could bring the essentials over this weekend, then slowly pack up the rest, see what I want to keep and give away the rest of it. If all goes according to plan, my driver can start picking me up here on Monday and I'll be properly moved in by early November.”

“For your birthday.”

He smiles. “Yes.”

“Sounds great,” she says, heart full and happy. She leans in and presses a soft kiss against his lips. “I love you and I'm glad,” she tells him. “It will be wonderful to have you here every night, every morning, every weekend – Scarlet too. Maybe she and Fidget will become great friends and they'll be just as happy with each other as we are together.”

He smiles, eyes softening. “I love you, Ruth. I always will. I intend – if you'll let me – to spend the rest of my life with you. I need you to know that.”

“I know,” she whispers, touched by his words.

“And I need you to know that I want to marry you.” Her eyes widen in surprise, but he ploughs on. “Perhaps it's too soon to consider that now, but I'm ready whenever you are.”

“Is this a proposal, Harry?” she asks, trying and failing to suppress a smile. He really is hopelessly, adorably wonderful sometimes.

“Yes. No. In a manner of speaking.”

“Well, if you're not sure, how am I supposed to take it seriously?” Her lips twitch with amusement.

“You're teasing me,” he complains, pouting adorably.

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Right.” He sits up abruptly and swings his legs out of bed, reaching for his underwear that's lying on the floor beside the bed.

“Where are you going?” she asks in alarm.

“Nowhere. Just getting dressed,” he replies, pulling his trunks and trousers on as she turns the bedside lamp on.

“Why?”

“Because.” He crosses the room to her dressing table, pulling his shirt on as he goes, buttoning it up and shoving it into his trousers. When he starts rummaging around in her jewellery box, she begins to understand what he's up to.

“Pull out the little drawer,” she tells him. “The one with the clasped hands should do nicely.”

He chuckles as he does as directed and locates the ring she's talking about. Then he turns to face her once more, walking around the room to her side of the bed where she's sitting with arms wrapped around her knees, barely able to contain her excitement and delight.

“Shouldn't I get dressed too?” she asks.

“No,” he replies as he stops beside her. “I'm going to need you naked, whatever your answer.” And with that, he drops to one knee beside the bed and reaches for her hand, clasping it gently with his own and rubbing his thumb across her knuckles, his gaze soft and hopeful. “Ruth. My lovely, Ruth. I love you with a passion and intensity I hadn't thought possible. With you in my life, I know exactly what I'm fighting for. You give me hope, you bring me joy, you ground and support me. I hope I do the same for you. I hope I make you happy. I have no wish to spend even a single moment of the time left to me without you. Please, Ruth, will you marry me?”

The tears gathering as he talks spill over and she finds she cannot speak, so moved is she by his words. She shakes her head at herself, then nods, then laughs as he says with twinkling eyes and a half-smile, “ _Now_ who's giving mixed signals?”

She reaches for him, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing her face into his shirt, taking a deep breath to steady herself and savouring the feel of him, his scent, the love that's filling her heart and overflowing.

“Is that a yes?” he asks huskily, pressing his lips against her shoulder, his hands running up her back and down again.

She laughs again and pulls back, wiping her cheeks with her hands and nodding her head, gazing into his gorgeous eyes as she finally finds her voice and murmurs, “Yes. Yes, Harry. Of course, I'll marry you.”

He smiles – one of those very rare ones that tell her he's truly happy – and reaches for her hand, slipping the ring he'd fished out of her jewellery box onto her finger. “I'll get you a proper one tomorrow, but for now...”

“No,” she objects softly. “This one's great. It's perfect, Harry.”

He frowns. “But it's already yours, Ruth.”

“I know and I love it.” She smiles at his sceptical expression. “It wasn't a gift, if that's what's worrying you. I bought it for myself some years ago because I liked it so much. It's _supposed_ to be an engagement ring and I remember thinking how much I'd like to receive it as such one day, when I bought it.” He still looks unconvinced, so she adds, “It cost fifty quid, if you'd like to pay for it, but really, Harry, you won't find another ring that I'll love more, and you've already put it on my finger. After such a wonderful proposal, it would feel wrong to wear another one, no matter how beautiful.”

He sighs in defeat. “Very well, but I _am_ going to pay for it, and not a measly fifty quid either.”

She smiles. “I'm not marrying you for your money, Harry,” she points out gently, sliding her arms over his shoulders, threading her fingers through his hair.

“I know that, Ruth, but-”

“But nothing. It's not how much it costs, but how special it is to me.”

He scowls. “I suppose you'll also be wanting to get tin wedding rings to match then.”

That makes her laugh. “I'll have you know it's sterling silver! I'll tell you what though – _you_ can choose the wedding rings,” she offers, generously. “How does that sound?”

“Good. That sounds good. Now come here,” he says, drawing her closer. “I want to kiss the future Mrs-.”

“Not on your life!” she interrupts, leaning away from him. “ _Ms_ Evershed, if you please, or-”

“Oh shut up and kiss me, you infuriating woman,” he growls before he silences her with a passionate kiss, leaning into her until she's lying flat on her back with him on top of her, his hands and lips and tongue working their magic, rendering her inarticulate – a moaning, quivering mass of thoroughly loved ecstasy.

 

 

_Sunday, 10th October 2004 – Catherine's Place_

 

He looks at his daughter – this beautiful, intelligent woman that she has become – and can't help the surge of pride he feels, and of love. She is remarkable, her own person, a gift to humanity and it's all down to _her –_ her own choices, her own struggles, her own determination and effort. He really had nothing to do with it, though Ruth would likely tell him otherwise. She'd insist that a big part of who Catherine is today is because of him – the example he set, if nothing else, of service and self-sacrifice. And maybe in the end, they're both right. He _could_ have done better – he knows that – but there's not much point in dwelling on his failings now.

“I'm sorry if I've been a bad father,” he tells her softly, watching the surprise register in her eyes. “I don't expect you to forgive everything, just to understand that I would like things to be better between us.”

She nods repeatedly and smiles, and he feels a weight lift off his heart. “Well, I've got your email,” she says.

He dips his head, smiling as he says gently, “Let's hope you'll use it.”

She smiles, but then her face turns serious again. “Bye, Dad,” she murmurs, looking lost and small all of a sudden. It tugs at his heart to see her looking vulnerable, to think that he won't see her for weeks, perhaps months, to imagine the danger she might be walking straight into by returning to the West Bank, so he does the only thing he can think of – he wraps her in his arms.

“I love you, Catherine,” he whispers a little hoarsely, squeezing her against him.

“I love you too, Dad,” she replies.

He closes his eyes, savouring the moment, trying to remember when last he held her thus, but it's been too long to identify with any certainty. She certainly wasn't as tall as this, so it's likely been near two decades. Far too long. Far, far too long, and as he feels her pull back and he releases her, he silently vows never to let her down like that again.

He clears his throat. “When do you think you'll be back next?” he asks, not quite ready to let her go just yet.

“I don't know,” she replies, looking uncertain.

“Christmas?” he suggests hopefully.

She smiles. “Probably. I'll let you know.”

“Good.” He smiles, then gets the door for her, watching fondly as she steps closer to get it, only to suddenly blurt out, “There's someone I'd very much like you to meet... when you're back in England.”

She pauses, frowning at him, and he begins to regret giving into the impulse to tell Catherine about Ruth. “Someone?”

“Yes.” He swallows. “Someone very special to me. I hope very much that you will like her.”

He waits with bated breath, terrified of Catherine's reaction.

“Not your illegitimate daughter, I hope?” she says, her eyes narrowed, and it's such an unexpected response that he can't help the chuckle that escapes him.

“No,” he reassures her quickly. “I only have _one –_ beautiful and remarkable – daughter.”

“Good,” she says, then smiles. “I'll look forward to meeting her then. Now I must be off or I'll end up missing my flight.” And with that, she's through the car door and pulling away in no time at all, and he's left watching after her until her car disappears round the corner, his heart full of the progress they've made, then suddenly empty from her departure.

He turns, lost in thought, memories, and regrets as his feet carry him back to Thames House, where he pours a largish whisky and sits himself down to get some paperwork sorted. The place is deserted and he suspects everyone's gone down to the George to celebrate the successful conclusion of another operation. Even Ruth seems to have disappeared, which leaves him with a mixture of emotions, from disappointment that she's not here to greet him, to pride that she's chosen to face her fears and the others head on by going to the pub with them.

He turns to his inbox and pulls out the first folder, but try as he might, he can't seem to focus and, before long, his hands have reached for another folder entirely, one that's taken up permanent residence in the top drawer of his desk over the last few days, and again he is reading that poem – A Prayer for My Daughter, by Yeats.

He has no idea what it is about these words that speak to him – perhaps it's just the coincidence of Jane teaching it to her A-level students while Catherine was a helpless, adorable infant. She used to look so angelic in her sleep, he remembers, so intelligent and curious when awake. He'd never been around babies until she'd come along and he'd found it quite captivating to watch her, his heart melting at the sight of the big grin she used to give him when he got home and her babbling conversation. She'd had quite a pair of lungs on her too, of course, and there had been many a night when he'd stayed up with her, trying to soothe her cries to give Jane a break and feeling like an utter failure when, minutes later, she'd walk back into the room, take Catherine from him, and simply calm her down by popping a boob out and nursing her back to sleep. That had been the closest he's every come to wishing he had a pair of lactating breasts instead of the useless nipples he was born with.

“What are you contemplating with such focused attention?” Ruth asks softly from the doorway, and when he lifts his gaze to hers, his heart sighs with relief, his mind calming, equanimity restored.

“Memories mostly,” he murmurs with a soft smile, setting aside the poem. “Wishing I had a pair of nice tits,” he jokes.

She lifts her eyebrows.

“I was remembering feeling rather at a disadvantage in the parenting department when Catherine was a baby.”

She smiles and crosses the room to his side. “Well, you know you can always borrow mine,” she offers, making him chuckle.

“Thank you.” He takes her hand in his, linking their fingers together as he tilts his head back to look at her. “How was it at the George?”

She makes a face. “Alright. It was fine really. Adam asked me if you were coming, so I told him that I have no idea and that I'm not your keeper, so that seemed to shut everyone up nicely and there was no more talk about us after that.”

He smiles. “Well done.”

“Thank you.” Her eyes are shining with pleasure.

“You didn't tell them then?” he asks, more out of curiosity than anything else.

“No,” she admits. “And no one noticed because apparently Will proposed to Zoe too and they're engaged now.”

He hums, eyes probing hers with concern. “And how do you feel about that?”

“I'm happy for them.”

“I meant-”

“I know what you meant, Harry,” she smiles, running the fingers of her right hand through the curls at the nape of his neck. “I'm happy they didn't notice. I like that it's a secret for a little while, though I suppose I should tell Mum and David soon.”

“And I should probably meet them,” he adds with a wry smile.

“That too.” Her eyes are twinkling at him with pleasure as they stare at each other for long moments in silence, until she clears her throat and changes the subject. “What about you? How did it go with Catherine?”

“Fine.” He sighs. “Better. Progress was made.”

“Good. I told you she wants you in her life.”

“I know. You were right.” He presses a kiss against her knuckles, then adds, “As usual.”

She beams at him and kisses his lips lightly before pulling back again. He's thoroughly enjoying their colleagues finally knowing about them – Ruth would never have dared hold his hand, caress his skin, and kiss him on the Grid before, even on a day like today when there's no one around to witness it.

“I told her about you,” he confesses, watching her eyes widen in surprise. “Well, I only said that I'd like her to meet you when she's next in London. I didn't tell her anything about you. I thought it right that she should know you exist though since-”

“We're going to be married,” she finishes the thought for him.

“Exactly.” He smiles and drops his gaze to the ring on her finger, feeling so pleased and proud to see it there and finding that it's growing on him – her choice of ring, the simplicity and understated nature of it, the fact that it's not _obviously_ an engagement ring, so she feels free to wear it at work, and the symbolism of the two hands clasped together: _their_ hands, holding onto each other for all eternity.

“And how did she take it?” Ruth asks, pulling his thoughts back to their conversation.

“Rather well.” He smiles wryly at the recollection of Catherine's words. “Well, initially, when I said there's someone very special to me I'd like her to meet, she thought I might be trying to introduce her to a half-sister she doesn't know about.”

“Blimey!”

He chuckles. “I know. Anyway, once I'd promised she's my only daughter, she relaxed and said she'd look forward to it.”

“That's promising. I think you might have to prepare her for it a little bit though. For starters, she's not going to be expecting someone my age,” she points out logically.

He frowns, his heart sinking somewhat. After years of having no contact with either of his children, he can't bear the thought that his relationship with Ruth might push Catherine away again.

“Of course, I could use make up – make myself look a little older when I meet her if you like.” Her voice is teasing and there is mischief in her eyes, but somehow it doesn't serve to lift his spirits. And of course, being Ruth, she realises that immediately despite his attempt at a smile. Her gaze softens and she bends down to deposit a soft kiss on the top of his head and rest her cheek against it for a moment. “It'll work out, Harry. Don't worry so much. Even if she hates me, we'll find a way to make it work.”

“I find it hard to believe that anyone could ever hate you, Ruth,” he replies honestly, resting his head against her stomach and drawing her hand to his lips again.

“There you go then. She won't hate me and everything will be fine.” Her hand gives his an encouraging squeeze as she pulls back to look at him and offers him a gentle smile.

“Yes,” he agrees, but without much conviction. He suddenly feels very drained by the whole thing, the events of the last few days with Catherine and the November Committee, the stress and uncertainty, his exhaustion weighing him down, dulling the joy of Ruth accepting his proposal that's kept his hopes up for a future that includes Ruth and his children – together – a family he hasn't had in _such_ a long time.

She watches him in silence for a moment or two, her eyes full of understanding and compassion. Then she squeezes his hand again and says, “Well, I'm not sure there's much point worrying about it now anyway. It's getting late and I'm going to head home. Coming?”

He sighs and tries to shake himself free of his gloomy thoughts, rubbing his eyes with thumb and fingers and nodding his head.

“Good.” She leans down and presses a soft kiss against his lips, pulling her left hand from his grasp and cupping his cheek. “We'll sort it out, Harry. You'll see. Everything will work out in the end. You're tired and in need of rest and a good night's sleep.”

He sighs again. “Probably,” he concedes.

“Come on then. Let's go home. Scarlet and Fidget are waiting.”

He smiles at that – the thought of the two of them waiting for them together, under the same roof for the very first time. At least they have that – their own little fur-family. Their introduction had gone quite well and there's definite reason to hope, he feels, that they'll be able to leave them together unsupervised before long – they'd closed Scarlet in the kitchen this morning, just to be on the safe side – and that they'll perhaps even become the best of friends soon.

“That's better,” she says, smiling. “I'll go get my things.” And as he watches her leave his office, it's suddenly not that hard to look on the bright side, push aside his worries, and go home with the brilliant, kind, and generous woman who has agreed to be his wife.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A bit later than usual, but here it is - a short epilogue for this fic. I'd like to take the opportunity to thank you all for reading and especially reviewing. You have no idea how encouraging and wonderful a feeling it is to receive even just a positive, two-word sentence in a review for us fanfic writers! Bless you all who've made the effort to let me know you've enjoyed my writing. See you for the next one. S.C. x

 

_Monday, 3 rd January 2005 – The Grid_

 

“Morning,” he says as he crosses the room to take a seat at the head of the table. “Adam. Sam.”

“Morning, Harry,” Sam greets cheerfully. “Welcome back.”

“Thank you. Everything under control?” This he directs at Adam who nods and grins at him.

“Just dandy, Harry. How was the break?”

“Good. Relaxing.” He takes a seat and clasps his hands together on top of the table. He's not kidding. He really does feel relaxed, so much so, that he is actually smiling.

“ _I'll_ bet,” says Sam, clearly without thinking, the innuendo in her tone of voice all too obvious.

Adam looks at her incredulously, his lips twitching with amusement as Harry tilts his head at her and gives her his best quelling stare. He watches with satisfaction as she mutters, “ _God_ , sorry,” and drops her gaze, her cheeks colouring under his scrutiny, but before he can really enjoy his triumph, the others begin filing into the room and things go downhill from there.

Malcolm, Danny and Zoe enter first and say good morning, the former crossing to his side and offering him his hand with a greeting not unlike Sam's, “Welcome home, Harry.”

He rises slightly and shakes the proffered hand, thanking Malcolm, just as Sam exclaims, “Oh my God!” causing everyone's eyes to turn to her in surprise. “You didn't!”

“Who didn't? Didn't what?” Danny asks in confusion.

“Look!” and she points straight at him, or more accurately, he realises, at his left hand.

_Shit!_

Smoothly, so as not to arouse suspicion, he releases Malcolm's hand and resumes his seat, casually resting his right hand over his left as he purses his lips and looks questioningly at her, his eyes slightly narrowed in warning, but it seems Sam is not about to heed any warnings and, moreover, she's divined his intention, for, ignoring the other's puzzled frowns and Zoe's confused and rather exasperated, “ _What?!_ ”, Sam lunges across the table and grasps his right hand with her left, a startled Adam almost falling off his chair as she throws herself across him.

“Bloody hell, Sam! What the hell?!”

Sam ignores him, saying urgently. “Stop him! Malcolm, help! Grab his other hand.”

Malcolm looks just as confused and stunned as the rest of them, and if the stakes were not so high, he might have found the situation really quite funny. Trust Sam to be the one to spot it. What the hell does he pay the others for?!

He narrows his eyes at Sam, his face like thunder as he looks down at her – sprawled as she is across the table – and says in his lowest, most menacing voice, “Samantha Buxton, unhand me this _instant_.”

She squeaks and releases his hand almost by reflex, muttering, “Sorry,” as she pulls back, the rest of the team's eyes following her in shocked confusion and giving him plenty of opportunity to lower his hands below the table, remove the offending item, and slip it into his pocket.

And perhaps, it would have ended right there had not Ruth chosen that exact moment to walk into the room, saying breathlessly, “I'm late. I know. I'm sorry. What did I miss?”

_Bugger!_

 

* * *

 

“Oh, er...” Zoe responds, still looking rather shocked. “Hi, Ruth. We... er... You've not missed much. We haven't really-”

“I knew it!” Sam exclaims, springing to her feet and crossing the room so fast, no one has the time to stop her. “I bloody _knew_ it!”

“What the-” Ruth has no time to finish her sentence – as she leans away from Sam who seems intent on invading her personal space – before she grabs her left forearm with such force as to knock the notepad and couple of folders she's holding out of her arms. “Sam!” she protests, eyes on the mess on the floor, not realising what Sam's up to until she feels her lifting her hand up for all to see.

“See?!” Sam exclaims in triumph. “And Harry's got one too! You sly things. You got married, didn't you?”

She freezes and slowly lifts her gaze, feeling her cheeks flush as her eyes dart from one face to another, the triumph in Sam's gaze and shock on each one of the others' faces doing nothing to ease her sudden anxiety until her gaze meets Harry's. He's looking at her apologetically, but with eyes full of love, and it's only vaguely that she registers the exclamations of surprise, the indignation of the others, their demands to know if it's true, and Sam berating herself for not noticing that the ring she's been wearing all this time was on her _left_ ring finger.

She smiles at him, gaze softening as she recalls all the wonderful things that have happened between them over the last ten days – their quiet, registry office wedding with Catherine, her mum and David in attendance, their romantic, cosy, five-day honeymoon in the Lake District and their trip to Paris for New Year's, the joy of coming home together to Scarlet and Fidget, of feeling so close, so peaceful, so loved. The funny thing is that, just two days ago, she'd reminded him not to forget to take his ring off when they returned to the Grid and he'd assured her that he wouldn't, which would explain the slightly sheepish look he has on his face now.

 _Christ,_ but she loves him. And really, what does it matter if the whole world knows about it? Let them know, let them laugh, let them comment. Harry Pearce is hers now. Her partner, her friend, her lover, her _husband_. It feels so right. It _is_ right that they're together and it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks, feels, or says about it.

She smiles at him, softly at first, then more broadly, her fondness for him and love overflowing in her gaze, and then she nods to give him her permission, watching him smile in return and reach into his pocket, returning his wedding ring to his finger before he stands and clears his throat and everyone turns to face him. “I don't know what the hell we pay you for! Call yourselves spies. It is, of course, true. Ruth and I are married. Well done, Sam. Now pick up that mess you've made of Ruth's papers and hand them back to her. The rest of you, take a seat and let's get started. We haven't got all day.”

“But, Harry-” Sam protests, but for once, she seems to read the warning in his gaze and choose to heed it. She drops her gaze and turns to her, murmuring, “I'm sorry, Ruth,” and giving her a hug, then whispering in her ear with glee, “I'm so happy for you. Congratulations. I want all the details later.”

_Of course you do._

She laughs and pulls out of Sam's arms, only to have Zoe embrace her and murmur pretty much the same thing, but then the two of them combined can't seem to resist starting the interrogation early as they pull her down, ostensibly to help Sam collect the papers, but really to pepper her with whispered questions about the wedding and the honeymoon, until Harry sighs rather loudly in defeat.

“Sit. All of you,” he barks and waits as they scramble to do as he asks at the dangerous tone his voice has taken on. “Alright. To save us the trouble of repeating ourselves ad infinitum and everyone ending up with a different story anyway, here is what you need to know. Ruth and I were married on Christmas Eve in London. No, it was not a church wedding, Sam, and there were very few people there, Zoe, which is why none of you were invited. It was just us and enough family to act as witnesses – with one spare, just in case.” Adam chuckles and several of the others smile at that. “Then we spent a little under a week in the Lake District and a few days in Paris for New Year's before returning home.”

“Awww... How romantic!” Sam interrupts, looking a little dreamy.

Harry purses his lips, probably to hide the smile that she can see dancing in his eyes. Romantic doesn't even begin to describe how truly wonderful it had been and they both know it. He catches her eye, but quickly looks away again, saying in a tone of voice designed to discourage further conversation on the topic. “So. Everyone satisfied with that for now? Are there any more questions? Or can we finally get back to some work?”

Adam grins. “Summed up very nicely for us, Harry. Congratulations to you both.”

“Thank you, Adam,” Harry replies, shaking his hand. “Assuming all remains quiet here, drinks at the George tonight are on me.”

The others all cheer at that, calling out their appreciation, congratulations and best wishes, until Harry directs their attention back to work and Adam begins the briefing, and she finds that, in spite of the fact that their quiet evening at home tonight has been ruined now, she's actually quite looking forward to going to the George with everyone, especially as Harry will be there too and she'll be free to actually sit with him and hold his hand, unlike any other time they've been there together.

Their wedding had happened rather quicker than she'd anticipated, but she can see now the value in that, the freedom it gives them at work together. The gossip will die down much faster, she's sure, as will the nasty comments. They'll continue to work well together, side by side, and soon there will be nothing to talk about and it'll all be forgotten. All that will remain will be a couple who make a formidable team, both on and off the court, so to speak, and all the triumphs – and failures, though she rather hopes there won't be many of those – they achieve together.

She smiles at the thought and lifts her gaze to Harry, who's watching her, his eyes silently asking if she's alright, her answering smile telling him all is wonderful. His lips lift infinitesimally in acknowledgement before he returns his eyes to Adam, and she drops her gaze to his hands, where his platinum-gold ring shines on his left finger, her heart filling with joy and love, a smile tugging at her lips, the impulse to get up, cross the room and kiss him strong, but quickly checked, as she too returns her gaze to Adam. There will be time enough for kisses later. There will be time for so much more than that. Every day, every night, every month, every year in the future. Every triumph and celebration. Every birthday, anniversary, Christmas, and New Year. He's promised to take her to New York next year. He's shared his dream of the Grand Tour. There is just so _much_ to look forward to and she loves that. She _needs_ that, if she's honest, to continue at this job, to get through the heartache that it brings, the losses, the pain, the fear and grief that goes with the territory. She doesn't see how she could survive without it. The day she loses Harry, she suspects, will be the day she leaves MI-5 behind forever.

But that's a worry for another day, a long way in the future, she hopes. Today is a day of celebration and joy and love and enjoying the moment with their colleagues and friends tonight, and with each other and Scarlet and Fidget later.


End file.
